Forlorn Hope
by SixThings
Summary: This is not about Elizabeth and Darcy, it is about Colonel Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth. It is complicated and bittersweet; there is tragedy and maybe a little hope and love. Not for everyone. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

**forlorn hope:**

noun, _military_

1\. A suicide mission, one for which men are asked to volunteer for and are not expected to return alive from but which is important to the overall battle strategy or tactics

noun

2\. to despair that what is wanted can be had but to still hold on despite anxiety and fear and turmoil

* * *

Hunsford, Easter 1813

Her days she could anticipate with regularity; one she had meditated that first evening in her bed chamber. The quiet employments of Mrs. Collins which Elizabeth and Maria lend a hand to, the vexatious interruptions of Mr. Collins and the grandeur of any events to which they were deigned to be invited to at Rosings. The rhythm of her visit did not truly vary those first two weeks at the Parsonage and she was not sorry for it. Elizabeth was happy with her time with Charlotte, there were pleasant half hours of conversation and the weather proved so fine for the time of year that she was often out of doors. She soon found a favorite walk which edged next to Rosings Park and which no one else seemed to value but herself. It became a particular haunt of hers especially when Lady Catherine de Bourgh swooped in upon the Collinses on some pretext or other and Elizabeth could slip away while they engaged with their patroness. Their invitations to dine at Rosings continued even after Charlotte's father returned to Meryton but also continued with the style set that first evening: the grand, haughty lady sat on her throne dispensing advice, unasked for, to her audience. The evenings were not without amusement to Elizabeth as Lady Catherine was a new character to study and she, herself, was no longer under direct attack with impertinent and probing questions from the great lady.

Elizabeth had been surprised to hear that Mr. Darcy was expected soon on a visit to his aunt and his visit to Rosings was to overlap with hers. His was not an acquaintance she would truly care to meet again but it would bring a change to the rhythm of her days: not that she found them lacking in any way. She wondered how he behaved around his cousin, Anne de Bourgh, as Lady Catherine spoke of their destiny together with great animation; she spoke of Darcy and Anne's union as a certainty.

The day of his arrival the whole Parsonage knew the instant he appeared as Mr. Collins had spent the whole morning walking the lane so he could spy the esteemed nephew. He made his courtliest bow to the carriage as it passed and then hurried home to tell the ladies. Mr. Collins was most anxious to renew his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy again—though they had, in truth, only met once—and set off the following morning to Rosings to pay his long-winded respects to the gentleman.

It was another fine warm morning. Elizabeth was sitting in Mrs. Collin's parlor and was just considering setting out on a walk when her friend came running in from her husband's study which fronted the lane.

"Eliza! Mr. Collins has returned with Mr. Darcy and Lady Catherine's other nephew! This is quite an honor—I am sure this is due to _you_ —for Mr. Darcy would never have called on _me_ so soon." Elizabeth could not protest before her friend and the sister were setting the room to right and preparing for their visitors which were announced by the door-bell.

The three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam led the way; he was the younger son of the Earl of Dunchurch. He was not handsome but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy appeared as he had before, composed and reserved and paid the exact compliments to Mrs. Collins. Elizabeth merely curtsied to him and he nodded in return before sitting down. The Colonel spoke warmly and heartily to all. He kindly complimented the lady of the house, teased and flirted with her sister and sought topics of interest with Elizabeth. He was a man blessed with easy manners and he made Elizabeth feel as if they were old friends and not ones of just a few minutes' acquaintance. She found herself looking from the handsome, yet silent face, of his cousin to the plain, yet regular features of Colonel Fitzwilliam as they wound through the topics of the weather, possible shared acquaintances and on to the different experiences of travel afforded by different carriages. At some point Mr. Darcy directed a remark to Mrs. Collins about her house and gardens then returned to being an observer again. Mr. Collins seemed to be in awe of the son of an Earl and sat, like Mr. Darcy, mute, leaving the conversation to the ladies and the Colonel.

It was only as the conversation was wrapping up that Mr. Darcy seemed to rouse himself and made a general inquiry of Elizabeth about her family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a moment's pause asked of him how his friend Mr. Bingley was and whether he and his sister Miss Bingley were in health?

"Quite well," was the cool reply.

* * *

Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were much talked about at the Parsonage. All three ladies felt he would brighten their social engagements at Rosings with his easy manners and happy discourse. Maria Lucas was the sort of girl who always depended on the society of men to feel truly happy so she looked forward with eagerness to an invitation from the great Lady despite her wishing in the same breath for the company of one cousin and disdaining over the sour face of the other.

"It is just as he was in Meryton; Mr. Darcy has _such_ a look on his face as though he wants to be somewhere else," she explained to her sister. "Do you not think he has such a long face, Lizzy?"

"I see he has not changed much since we saw him last fall, that is for sure," agreed Elizabeth.

"He is far handsomer than his cousin; there must be a few years between them too," ventured Charlotte. "Mr. Darcy is four or five years younger by appearance."

"Yes, but his good looks are spoiled by his aloof, even haughty manner. I wonder that he cared to come visit the Parsonage?" asked Elizabeth.

"He has some right manners, Eliza, for he did come," scolded Mrs. Collins, looking directly at her friend. "Perhaps he is not easy in company? Some people are not as silver-tongued and comfortable with new acquaintance as Colonel Fitzwilliam."

Elizabeth who pulled up an image of the amiable Mr. Wickham in her mind and all of his grievances against Mr. Darcy did not wish to consider Darcy in a compassionate light, especially with what she suspected of Darcy's hand in separating Mr. Bingley and her sister Jane from one another the past fall.

"We are all called to make little sacrifices to the requirements of society, Charlotte. It is not such a difficult thing to remember to bow or curtsey and ask 'how do you do' and yet _he_ seems to resent being asked to do so. Is it so wrong to be polite and inquire after a friend?" cried Elizabeth with a little more passion than was perhaps required.

Charlotte could make no argument against her speech and did not attempt it.

* * *

Maria was disappointed that there was not an immediate invitation to Rosings; no invitation came that day or the next. They did not see any of the Rosings family until the third morning when Colonel Fitzwilliam came to call. Mr. Collins was out but the ladies welcomed the Colonel with sincere pleasure. Their first impression of him was not changed in any way. He spoke with animation on a dazzlingly new array of subjects and gave a welcome bright spot to their morning. Mrs. Collins was pleased with the attention from such a guest while Maria felt that she must be an object of interest in the soldier's eyes, tittering and laughing at everything he had to say.

Elizabeth listened to his opinions and responded with her own where she had informed opinions but held her tongue and admitted her ignorance of a topic if she did not—all the while inviting Colonel Fitzwilliam to enlighten or instruct her. He stayed beyond a half hour and left laughing and apologizing to the ladies when he noted his overly-long stay.

Charlotte and Maria had a lot to say about the visit. Maria was so impressed with the manners found in so well-bred of a man. She was quickly developing a _tendre_ for him; she had not been immune to the officers of the militia who had been stationed in Meryton and could now readily substitute Colonel Fitzwilliam for her previous favorites in the militia. Tea was spent principally in discussing the morning's conversation and sharing their delight in his attentions.

* * *

Elizabeth's sheltered walk called to her the next morning. Mature ash trees lined the path making a parasol unnecessary and Elizabeth was tempted to remove her bonnet. She loosed the ribbons on it and let it fall back as a soft breeze ruffled the curls around her forehead.

"Miss Bennet," hailed the Colonel. She spied him coming towards her and greeted him warmly. "Enjoying this fine spring weather?" he asked as he turned to walk with her.

"Yes. I am frequently tempted out of doors, especially in the mornings when Charlotte is busy with her household duties," she replied.

"And does not her sister wish to come out too?"

"Maria is not much of a walker," and then Elizabeth, feeling perhaps too critical, added, "she also helps Charlotte with her responsibilities. I suppose I could help with parish visits and the like as well."

"But you are frivolous and tempted by the weather," he teased. She smiled; she had the type of smile that lit up her whole face and despite her dark eyes they sparkled with merriment. He could not but be drawn in by them. "Have you enjoyed your time in Kent? Is this your first visit?"

"I have and it is," she replied, "one does not have to travel all over and see the sights and landmarks to say one has been to a place. A large part of the getting away is just that, being away from home and familiar surroundings and experiencing life in a different form."

"You are an astute observer," he replied, "most of my acquaintance have only the key points of interest of a place in mind, partake of them, and then scurry off back home."

"But that is human nature, is it not? We like to be comfortable, our home, family, our friends, our patterns of life," she replied.

"When you have been to war, do not discount the importance of home and family," his voice grew deeper. He was too new an acquaintance for her to ask about his time on the Continent and his experiences of battle. She was not sure if he would share such things with a lady anyways.

"Home: it is both a reality but also an ideal," she continued with their philosophical line of thinking.

"How so, what do you mean?" he asked.

"We all experience a home of some sort. We are raised in one and no doubt look back fondly or with some concerns about our childhood. But we also have an ideal of home in our heads that we are striving for in our current situation. If we are unmarried, perhaps we are looking for a partner that we will meet and help mold to our new ideal of home. Perhaps, if we are one of those not inclined to marry we strive to make our current situation improved—are we the best daughter to our father, the best sister?—those sorts of goals. And perhaps, as with Mr. and Mrs. Collins, we have just partaken of a new ideal and are testing it, these new limits, to see how it works and what sort of adjustments need to be made."

He had listened intently to her, absorbing her ideas with an interested look on his face. They reached the end of the covered grove of trees where it opened onto an expanse of meadow and the pair stopped while she arranged her bonnet and tied its ribbons.

"So which of the three ideals is mulling around in your head?" asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.

"Well I am not married or betrothed so I do not obviously know about the married ideal," she began.

"Obviously not," he replied as they began to cross through the meadow.

"I rather believe I am not inclined to marry," she continued.

"I am surprised!" and his voice and manner showed that he believed it.

"I love my family and am always felt called upon to better myself that I may be more helpful to them. There are five daughters in our family and we are not necessarily all inclined to marry. I shall, perhaps, become a devoted aunt and teach my nieces to embroider or indulge my nephews," she mused.

"You seem, Miss Bennet, as someone perfectly content with the present," he observed.

"I believe you are correct. I may be inclined to marry because I fall in love and experience some deep passion but marriage is so often not just about love."

"There must be a foundation of it. My brother Richard is a testament to that; I doubt I have ever seen a man more deeply in love than he is with his wife."

"Is he your oldest brother? Does he have the luxury of being able to love without worry for money?"

"Richard is actually the middle brother. Everard, Lord Radbourne, is the eldest and remains unmarried to the annoyance of my mother and father."

"So you are the unwanted third child?" she teased turning to look at him around the brim of her bonnet. He laughed.

"Oh no, I have sisters you know, Lady Susanna and Lady Clara."

"And were they fortunate to fall in love?" her tone was light and playful still even though the topic was a, perhaps, more serious than was usually discussed with a new acquaintance.

"Lady Susanna has not given her heart to anyone and given her temperament, I do not believe she will marry. Lady Clara has a brood of four and I suspect there are more planned."

"How fortunate for your family! I am sure your Mamma is pleased to have grandchildren. Are you a devoted uncle?"

"I do enjoy my nephews immensely."

"All boys!" she exclaimed her voice rising and he chuckled.

"It does sometimes happen that way—you did just tell me there are five daughters in yours?" Elizabeth nodded. "I have the advantage of being the dashing, exciting uncle, uniform and all, which accounts for my popularity." They had crossed the meadow and reached the drive that led up to Rosings House. They stopped.

"I can well understand it, sir, why you are a favorite with nephews and in society in general," and she curtsied.

"I thank you, that is a pretty compliment," and he bowed. "May I induce you to come up to the house?" he pointed up the drive, "I am sure Darcy is about though I do not know what Lady Catherine's plans are for this morning."

"No, I thank you. I am over-due to return to the Parsonage. Those parish visits, you know. I am, no doubt, neglecting my responsibilities," her eyes twinkled.

* * *

She considered him, when alone in her bed chambers, Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was a worthy man and she felt she had never known such a man, of such caliber. His education had been note-worthy and no doubt he had the best tutors and schooling given the sphere he grew up in. And he had taken advantage of what he had been given in terms of that education. She felt it was wasted on his being a mere soldier—what good could he do in such a position, what poor luck at being born third son that he had to find some occupation when his oldest brother and presumably the second—the married one—were free to be gentlemen of leisure.

Confounded fate that a man so blessed with charm and character and a richly informed mind had to have an occupation and such an occupation—soldiering. In order to free himself he could marry, but must marry very well, an heiress, he must consider looking for one worth 20,000 or 30,000 pounds to be able to retire from the army. Elizabeth, with her 1,000 pound dowry could never tempt him.

* * *

A/N: The story is mostly written, I am tightening and editing. Thank you to Amaranthais for suggesting I give in to my life-long love for Colonel Fitzwilliam and write a story for him. Updates twice a week. And as I said in my description, not for everyone's taste. It's complicated.


	2. Chapter 2

Neither the Colonel nor Mr. Darcy were seen at the Parsonage the rest of the week. Maria pouted when the women were together as there was no other young man in the neighborhood to flirt with or discuss over tea. The Collinses did not socialize with most of the families in Hunsford and there was only the haberdasher's young clerk who, broad-shouldered and tow-headed, kept all the young ladies in town swooning over their tea cups. Mrs. Collins suspected he had been hired for his looks alone to drive custom into the shop. When, by Friday, no one from Rosings had called, Maria needed some attentions from the opposite gender besides those of her brother-in-law and Elizabeth agreed to accompany Maria to town as Mr. and Mrs. Collins were due to call on Lady Catherine—a visit which Elizabeth and Maria both knew did not guarantee a glimpse of the Rosings gentlemen if they deigned to come along.

The two women made swift progress to the village of Hunsford. It was smaller than Meryton but lay on a more prominent travel road so it sported an inn that did good business year-round since it lay between London and the east coast of the country and all points thereof. There were fewer families living there but about the same number of shops and Maria's first stop was the haberdasher, ostensibly to purchase lace to trim dress sleeves afresh but in reality to gaze at the clerk's shoulders and wildly rumpled hair. She was not the only girl in the shop. No fewer than eight waited to look at various articles behind the counters. It was also a crush of people as mothers had accompanied their daughters. Elizabeth suggested they quit the shop entirely but Maria was determined for her ten minutes of attention from the handsome clerk and neither would she agree to try at a later time so Elizabeth said she would walk to the end of the town square and back again before collecting her young friend.

The bustle of the morning marketers had died away despite the crush at the haberdashers and Elizabeth enjoyed watching the few people on their errands in the village as she paced to the end of the street. She reached its length, turned and saw two figures at the far end of the square—the two gentlemen from Rosings. They too needed employment, apparently, for men cannot be indoors all the time and she recalled that Mr. and Mrs. Collins were to meet with their aunt so they must have been tempted to slip away. She considered hailing them though she was on foot and they on horseback but thought it unlikely they would wish or be able to stop. However Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to have spotted her and quickened his mount to meet up with her.

"Well met, Miss Bennet!" he cried reining his horse in, "well met. We are two cousins in search of pretty ladies and are arrested by the sight before us." He put his hand up in dramatic fashion on his chest. Elizabeth curtsied to the Colonel and then to Mr. Darcy who stopped beside Colonel Fitzwilliam with a warm smile though it did not match the Colonel's broad grin.

"Good sirs, you are too kind," and she curtsied again and then laughed.

"We would be honored if you would partake tea with us," asked Colonel Fitzwilliam after he dismounted.

"An honor," added Mr. Darcy from his seat.

"I am afraid I am wanted back at the haberdashers to collect Miss Lucas in fifteen minutes," she nodded to them in turn, "pray accept my excuses."

"It would be our honor to treat you both," continued the Colonel.

"Thank you," she answered. Mr. Darcy dismounted and the trio walked back to the shop. The men left to stable their mounts while Elizabeth sidled in to collect Maria. Miss Lucas seemed no closer to the counter and her object than when Elizabeth had left; she was not the pushy sort, like her sister Lydia, to insist on her turn or even reckon where her place in line had been. Maria complained she was not yet ready to go until Elizabeth explained there were two distinguished gentlemen waiting tea for them. Then the haberdasher's clerk grew suddenly coarse in her eyes as they headed for the Saracen's Head Inn. The delicacies to be had were crude compared to what Lady Catherine's cook could offer but the company was exceptional.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" asked the soldier of the shopper.

Miss Lucas sighed in what Elizabeth knew was an affectation at wounded elegance but came off as only a girlish sigh. "No, ala, there was _such_ a crush of people there today."

"I wonder that there is such a demand for his custom. I do not recall seeing such an amount of people in Mr. Jones' shop before," remarked Mr. Darcy.

"I cannot say why," trilled Miss Lucas. Her plump cheeks had a sweet blush of color on them and her soft honey curls made her a pretty picture.

"The shop has always been crowded whenever we have visited," offered Lizzy who did not betray the real reason for the visit.

"Perhaps you may obtain your items after tea?" offered Colonel Fitzwilliam. Maria looked at Elizabeth with an eagerness that was quite evident.

"We have been already been gone long from the Parsonage; I am sure we do not have the time. Perhaps another day we will be able to return," said Elizabeth.

"Might we escort you back on another day?" asked Mr. Darcy looking from Maria to Elizabeth.

"Oh yes," declared Miss Lucas.

"Have you enjoyed your time here?" asked Mr. Darcy, turning to specifically look at Elizabeth.

"My time here has been most pleasant," she answered.

The conversation did not flow with the same easiness at the inn over cups of tea as it had during that long morning walk between Elizabeth and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Mr. Darcy, though polite and with manners equal to his cousin's, was reticent in conversing with the two women. He kept to safe topics, mostly the weather. The meal passed by far quicker than either of the ladies considered and soon the two men bowed them on their way to the Parsonage before going off to collect their horses.

Maria had much to say about their tea and Lizzy listened with only half an ear as they would be sure to discuss it again with Charlotte once they reached home. Her thoughts were on the contrast between the two gentlemen. Mr. Darcy did have correct manners but his reserved character was so difficult a barrier. Almost like a shield he held up and kept up lest anyone get beyond it and discover his true character. She was not sure if she was intrigued or disgusted with him for it.

She remembered her dealings with Mr. Darcy in Hertfordshire in the fall. He had never been a man who courted anyone's acquaintance, so unlike his friend, Mr. Charles Bingley. Mr. Darcy spoke with correct politeness to anyone he addressed but never invited friendship or intimacy with any in the neighborhood which was so odd a contrast to his friend whose constantly smiling face had charmed everyone, man or woman. Most in the neighborhood had viewed Darcy as haughty and aloof, thinking better of himself because of his station in life. He was rich and owned extensive property and had the advantages of youth, income and patronage to his merit and might therefore consider well of himself.

Their first meeting had not been given her a positive image of him and their successive encounters had not raised Mr. Darcy in her estimation. Due to an illness of her sister, Jane, she had spent five days in the same house as him and Elizabeth had found little then, in their closeted conversations, to improve her appreciation for him. He was clever and intelligent and had taken advantage of the gifts of opportunity and education that had been laid before him. He had, however, a strong sense of his place in the world and like his shadow, Miss Bingley—Mr. Bingley's sister who had a preference for Mr. Darcy—looked meanly on those in lower circumstances. He had a strong sense about his worth and place in the world and his connections to people of importance and Elizabeth had always felt she could not like him.

He was, however, to be one of her acquaintance here and so she made an effort, if nothing else, for her hostess, Mrs. Collins, as it would not do to be rude to him while she was under her friend's roof.

* * *

Maria lamented that there was no immediate appearance of the men to escort her to town and they saw no one from the Rosings family until Easter day when they were asked, on leaving church, to come to Rosings in the evening. The invitation was accepted and at a proper hour they joined the party in Lady Catherine's drawing room.

Her Ladyship received them civilly but it was plain that the company from the Parsonage was not as acceptable as when she had other, more agreeable company; and she was, in fact, fixated on her nephews, speaking to them, but especially to Darcy, more than any other person in the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them and he disengaged himself from his aunt and came to sit with Elizabeth.

"Have you read Byron?" he asked seating himself in a chair that angled a bit away from the others.

"I am not sure how I should answer that," she looked into his face which she no longer considered plain. It was animated with intelligence when he spoke and his eyes, a bluish-gray, which seemed to change with his thoughts and feelings, were laughing at her now.

"His personal life does seem to overshadow his writing, but have you read Childe Harold's Pilgrimage?" he asked.

"I have not. I fear my father would rather we die spinsters than read Byron," and she leaned close to him, "Mrs. Collins and I did read some of his earlier works, before they were forbidden." He laughed, leaning back as his shoulders shook in his amusement. Darcy glanced over from his position next to his aunt.

Mrs. Collins and her sister, who were sitting with Anne de Bourgh, Lady Catherine's daughter, looked at the couple as well. Mrs. Collins could not help but smile at the attentions from so great a man as the Colonel to her friend. She loved Eliza, as close as a sister, and wished her every happiness, especially in marriage. Maria Lucas though, felt hemmed in by bad luck and did not attend to her own conversation with Mrs. Jenkinson, Anne's companion.

"We are living in a great age for poetry, have you read Scott?" he continued.

They were lost discoursing on the finer points of Scott and which of his epic poems they preferred. Mr. Darcy's eyes followed the spirited discussion with repeated glances until it caught the attention of Lady Catherine who more openly acknowledged their tete-a-tete, calling out to her other nephew.

"What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is?"

"We are speaking of poetry, madam," he answered when he could no longer avoid replying, "Of Walter Scott."

"Of poetry! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share of the conversation if you are speaking of poetry. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have a truer enjoyment and understanding of poetry than myself. I adore that Thomas Warton. However I am not sure of this new batch of poets, and refuse to read any of them—too much about 'inflamed souls' or such things, utter nonsense to me. I will not have Anne reading them. Darcy—does Georgiana study these modern scribes and their cryptic, romantic tripe?"

"She is fond of Shelley, I believe," he replied of his younger sister's studies.

"I am sorry to hear Mrs. Annesley allows such a thing," said Lady Catherine and pursed her lips. "How goes her painting? Pray tell me she does not neglect _that_ part of her genteel education?"

"She has kept to it," he replied, "but I fear we need to employ a new teacher if she is to truly improve."

"You must see to it, get a master up from London. I often tell young ladies that excellence in painting is _de rigueur_ to be truly considered accomplished. I have told Miss Bennet several times that she was badly neglected by her mother to not be instructed in drawing or painting. Even Anne, with her ill health, has been instructed on how to put brush to paper you know."

Mr. Darcy had an odd look at his aunt's remarks towards Elizabeth.

* * *

When coffee was over, he could not join in at the card tables. She drew him, and Darcy watched with a tinge of jealousy as Elizabeth was reminded of a promise to play by his cousin and she and Fitzwilliam walked away to the pianoforte. She played with a certain passion that was part of her nature. His aunt had warned about poetry and the dangers of reading it, of inflamed passion as something unhealthy but he could not see such a creature as she sat and played before him as dangerous. Elizabeth Bennet was enchanting and beautiful—the fine lines of her face, neck and shoulders, even the slope of her chest—and he stared at her as he watched her play.

He did not realize how much his attentions to her were noted until she had spoken to him. She spoke to him with that sharp wit he so admired but it was disconcerting to find it turned on him.

"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by standing there in such a state."

"It was not my intention to intimidate you," he assured her.

She returned to her keyboard and addressed his cousin and not Darcy though her conversation was in a teasing, even wounding, tone and he felt at a loss for words. She spoke of their meeting the previous fall in terms that were not flattering and Fitzwilliam laughed, agreeing with her that the austere and uncivil portrait she painted of him was accurate.

Darcy felt lost in the conversation. He attempted one explanation for his actions but both Miss Bennet and Fitzwilliam offered up reasons for why his justifications fell short.

Elizabeth did not even address him directly, but excluded him, speaking only to his cousin.

"Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?" remarked Miss Bennet to Fitzwilliam after Darcy had attempted to explain why he had difficulties in meeting new acquaintance.

"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," cried Darcy, attempting to appeal to her, "of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation or appear interested in their concerns as I often see done," but she would not turn her head and look his way. "It is especially hard at such a gathering as an assembly, where all the people are new to me, yet are known to each other."

She replied tying his difficulties with conversation to her mastery of the pianoforte and its simply being a matter of practice. Would that it was as simple as that; he felt he could have mastered introductions as well as he did shooting or riding, but there was something more complex about people and social gatherings than there was to tracking the flight of a pheasant in the sky.

Her face was alive with her wit and he could but look at it and feel entranced. Her words did not make him think less of her and he considered that he must tell Fitzwilliam of his feelings, tell his cousin where his heart lay and ask for Fitzwilliam's advice, that very evening, in fact, once the object of it had retired.

* * *

Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning and writing to Jane whose spirits had seemed low in her last letter. Jane cherished a very tender affection for Mr. Bingley. Her hopes—and those of Mrs. Bennet and even the whole neighborhood—had been quite high for a month between herself and Bingley during his residency in Hertfordshire in the fall, but nothing had come of it. Bingley had left for London at the end of November and had yet to return to his rented house, Netherfield Hall. Jane had been disappointed; she should have been devastated but that was not her charitable-minded way. She tempered her expectations and went back to her daily employments. It had been her first foray into being in love; she did not easily recover from it. Elizabeth knew her sister's normally gentle nature must be affected by her unspoken wishes as regards to Mr. Bingley, and of his leaving without a hint of returning, returning to Netherfield and returning Jane's affections.

Elizabeth was alone as Mrs. Collins and Maria had set out on some parish errand when she was startled by a ring at the door, a certain sign of a visitor. She thought it likely to be one of the gentlemen from Rosings and put away her half-finished letter. To her surprise both nephews of Lady Catherine entered the room. They apologized for the intrusion by letting her know they hoped to find all the ladies within.

They then sat down; the Colonel explained they had come because of the promised trip to Hunsford village owed to Miss Lucas. "For we gave our word, though we are not quite sure which one of us did the promising as we recollected it, so we both came to do our duty," and he nodded amiably to Elizabeth.

"I am sure Maria will be sorry she is not here to benefit from it," she replied. She did recall that it had been more Mr. Darcy's doing at the time though as she painted the scene in her head she thought Mr. Darcy had proposed the trip as much to her as he had to Maria; and the Colonel, being his usual cheerful self, had readily agreed to the scheme. The conversation paused as she looked more intently at Mr. Darcy though he said nothing else. Neither gentlemen seemed to know how to reply; the Colonel looked at his cousin but Darcy then glanced at Elizabeth, hesitated, and finally spoke.

"Do you suppose we might still have our little outing today? You said Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas are on parish business do you happen to know how long they are expected to be gone from the house or whether we might entice Miss Lucas from her responsibilities?"

Elizabeth did not know the length of the errand but knew its nature and a plan was formed to locate the young lady and pursue the promised trip to Hunsford village.

A cluster of houses between the Parsonage and the village housed the day's parish work and they found Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas on the road just setting off for home having completed their duties. Maria was delighted with the attentions of two gentlemen calling for her—for she felt all the honor must be claimed by her. Mrs. Collins gave her permission to go though Charlotte was motivated more for the attentions of the gentlemen for her friend than for her sister. She had seen their attentions to Elizabeth the previous night as Elizabeth sat and played at the pianoforte while the rest of the party had played at cards. Mrs. Collins could not but help to have schemes for Elizabeth; Charlotte alternately fancied her friend with either of the two men.

The party set off for the village, the Colonel having secured Miss Lucas' arm and they led the way. As Elizabeth watched them go talking in high spirits she was reminded of high stepping horses on parade, so handsome it was to watch the pair. She had secured Mr. Darcy's arm and he, in contrast, was quiet for several minutes before speaking; because of the brim of her bonnet she was not sure if he, like her, was watching the animated pair in front of them. Elizabeth recalled his departure from Hertfordshire in the fall.

"How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley and his sister are well, I hope, when you left London?"

"Perfectly so, I thank you," he replied.

"Do you know," and she did turn her head to look up at him then, "if Mr. Bingley has an idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?" He did not catch her glance and kept his eyes ahead of them on the other couple.

"I have never heard him say so but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends and receives many invitations; his engagements are continually increasing."

It was difficult to not think of her Jane going about all of her usual mundane activities at home whilst still loving Mr. Bingley all the while _he_ moved from one party of friends to another, enjoying himself. Elizabeth had often blamed Miss Bingley for persuading him to not return to Meryton, and to Jane. She wondered how much the man whose arm held hers at that moment had also influenced Mr. Bingley to think no more of Jane. Her hand tightened on his arm and he did, then, look down at her.

"If Mr. Bingley means to be no more at Netherfield it would be better for the neighborhood that he should give up the place entirely," she said.

"I should not be surprised," said Darcy, "if he were to give it up."

Elizabeth said no more. She was afraid of talking about his friend and left the trouble of finding a subject to him. A tittering laugh drew their eyes back to the couple in front. Maria laughed like any schoolgirl and yet the Colonel bent his head down to listen to her.

"Are you pleased with Kent? Your visit here has been what you wished?" asked Darcy after they watched the couple for many minutes.

"Yes, indeed, I am pleased to have come. Mrs. Collins has been a particular friend so I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to travel here." She paused, and then asked, "do you always visit your aunt at Easter?"

"Yes, Fitzwilliam and I have done this for many years. He established the visits when he was just out of school. He came because of our cousin, Anne. She was sixteen and had been quite ill that year so she could not go to London or travel anywhere. So he came to her with tales of his own travels."

"Really! He could not have been that old at the time. It strikes me as quite a mature notion," she said.

"He was twenty. Fitzwilliam has always had an old head on his shoulders. He induced me into joining him when I left school myself a few years later." She watched the man in question—the couple had outstripped them a ways and were almost at the village edge. Now he was charming another sixteen year old lest she be disappointed by a forgotten promise.

"Does he have a _tendre_ for his cousin or is it just part of his nature to be so gallant?" she asked turning to Darcy.

"It is just his way. Anne's health has limited her opportunities and he has devoted two or three weeks each spring to bringing the world to her and painting a picture with words," he said.

"I imagine his experiences are vast. Has he been on the Peninsula?"

"He has, although he does not share _those_ experiences with Anne," remarked Darcy as they crossed into the village.

Maria had only to wait for two other customers to be waited on by the haberdasher's clerk before they made their way back to the Parsonage.

Had not both Mrs. Collins and Elizabeth been part of large families, Maria's enthusiastic discourse on the topic of the walk with the two gentlemen to get her lace might have been unbearable. But such are the enthusiasms of young sisters so they listened in turns to her talk and discounted in private any of her thoughts that either gentleman admired her.


	3. Chapter 3

On the day after their trip to the village, Elizabeth ran into Darcy just as she had reached the end of the sheltered walk and was gazing out at the meadow and contemplating turning back. He hailed her and she waited for him.

"Are you continuing on or returning to the Parsonage?" he asked.

"I was just going to turn for home," she replied. They turned together and walked in silence.

"I have not seen you in this part of the Park before," she finally commented. It was usually a quiet ramble; she had only seen Colonel Fitzwilliam there the one time.

"Fitzwilliam mentioned to me that you liked this part of the Park," he replied.

"Oh! Yes, it is a favorite walk of mine," she answered. She was in some confusion as to Mr. Darcy's remark and his meaning to it. Had Colonel Fitzwilliam sent Mr. Darcy here to meet with her or had Mr. Darcy sought her out because of a chance remark from his cousin?

They found enough topics to keep the conversation afloat until they reached the Parsonage. He saw her to the door but said he would continue on his walk without coming in. She thought then their meeting had just been a chance encounter and Mr. Darcy's remark just something to say, especially a gentleman who seemed to be at a loss for conversation so often. She sometimes wondered at his seeking out the society of the inhabitants of the Parsonage as he frequently would sit for ten minutes without opening his lips; and when he did speak it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice. He never appeared pleased to join in with the flow of conversation that she could tell; he seldom appeared really animated with any topic. Elizabeth did not know what to make of it; Colonel Fitzwilliam occasionally laughed at his stupidity and silence which proved he was generally different in other settings.

Mr. Darcy met her a second and then a third morning in her walks in the Park and as before he turned to join her though as before he did not say much or if he did she did not seem to heed him. She still felt he was not someone she wished to know well but he was handsome enough, his voice was pleasing and so long as he took the time to find a topic of conversation their time together was not unpleasant.

Their invitations to Rosings had been limited with the gentlemen's visit but an evening invitation did come again. Elizabeth looked forward to it as she knew, by now, that the gentlemen were to leave soon and she was likely to only see them—and most especially the Colonel—once or twice more.

She would be sad to say goodbye to Colonel Fitzwilliam; her estimation of him had grown since meeting him and she thought him of even greater worth than Mr. Wickham, her former favorite from home. Mr. Wickham had a lieutenancy in the local militia and was such a charming and amiable young man that half the young ladies in Meryton were mad for him. Wickham was her model of a man who was amiable and pleasing but he had been eclipsed, as she contemplated her upcoming evening at Rosings, by the Colonel.

The _goodness_ displayed by the Colonel—his ready assistance to the trivial errand of a trip to town with Maria Lucas to fetch lace when they all seemed to recall that it had been Darcy who had offered—raised him in her estimation. Plus the kind words Darcy spoke of Colonel Fitzwilliam's years of traveling to Kent to visit Miss de Bourgh and putting up with the aunt in order to do so—and even to begin such a venture at such an early age—spoke a lot to her of his character. It was beyond anything she could imagine Wickham doing. That Darcy also came to visit she counted as well; she could not be forever examining Mr. Darcy and finding fault. He must also have merit. He had been kind and attentive to her in all of their meetings together during the two cousins' joint visit here even if she could not help comparing _his_ style of conversation to his _cousin's_.

She thought the Colonel had been quite open and even excessive in his admiration for her at first, especially during that initial evening together at Rosings. But in the days after that he had been friendly and talkative but a little less engaging, their conversation more moderate, the topics not as in depth as before. She speculated that the slight change in their acquaintance was due to some caution on his part with which she could not entirely fault. The younger son of an Earl could not marry without some attention to money and she had no fortune to speak of though she was a gentleman's daughter. Elizabeth paid no credit to the attentions of the cousin, those unexpected meetings during her walks or the visits to the Parsonage from Mr. Darcy. _His_ conversation and interest could not compare to Fitzwilliam's; he had never been a favorite with her and so she only saw him as a shadow when she had the brightness of the Colonel's manners and expressions to engage her time and attention.

* * *

The time after supper at Rosings was a little dull as they waited for the gentlemen. Elizabeth was particularly anxious for one last extensive conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam and wondered about the plans for the evening once the gentlemen came and whether there would be card tables or if she would be asked to play. Lady Catherine was discoursing about young ladies and accomplishments giving Miss Bennet grudging praise for her work at the pianoforte.

"But never having touched a canvas, it is too bad!" she declared. "Come, you should see some of Anne's work, come see what is to be learned if you obtain the teachings of a Master!" And a servant was sent for Miss de Bourgh's drawings. Elizabeth observed that Lady Catherine seemed more indignant about Elizabeth's lack of drawing skills than Miss Lucas' lack of talent, skill or education in that area. As though the daughter of a former tradesman, even though he had been knighted, could never be expected to obtain all the proper accomplishments but Elizabeth, as a gentleman's daughter, should have them all.

They gathered around Mrs. Jenkinson who showed them Miss de Bourgh's sketches and drawings while the artist sat to one side. Her companion was quite fond of the work and she and Lady Catherine exclaimed over it. Elizabeth was prepared to see poorly executed sketches given the enthusiasm of the two older women but was surprised by the quality of the charcoal pieces she was handed. Elizabeth was no expert but did think she had a good eye and could judge form, layout and subject matter: all of which were pleasing to her in Anne's compositions. Apparently Miss did Bourgh _did_ get out of doors in the small formal gardens near the house as her pictures were mostly nature scenes: flowers, trees, even animals—birds and squirrels.

Elizabeth praised the pictures appropriately, turning to the artist to say so and receiving a civil, even a warm "thank you," from Miss de Bourgh.

The gentlemen arrived at last and Elizabeth looked up as they trailed into the room; Lady Catherine calling out to both her nephews about some topic. There was general conversation for a few more minutes until Mrs. Jenkinson was calling for Whist players. Elizabeth wondered that they did not play Loo to accommodate the odd number of people. Miss de Bourgh smiled at Miss Lucas and Mrs. Collins stood to move to the card table. Lady Catherine called for Mr. Collins to come play Piquet with her and the evening seemed to unfold as it had before.

She looked at the two cousins and Colonel Fitzwilliam touched Darcy on the arm and said something in his ear. Both men looked out at the rest of the room and then at her in her lone chair. Mr. Darcy approached her.

"Would you play again this evening, Miss Bennet?" He wore the warmest of smiles as he held out his hand to escort her to the instrument.

"It would be my pleasure," she replied, taking his arm for the short walk to the pianoforte. He fussed over her to ensure her stool was the correct height and that she was happy with the music selection before he brought a chair over and sat exactly where the Colonel had been that previous evening. She glanced over to spy what Colonel Fitzwilliam was doing—he had his head bent over a letter at a far distant table; she frowned in disappointment. Perhaps he would finish up his letter and join them.

She played a number of pieces with Darcy turning the pages for her but making no conversation; the only talk coming from the card tables and concerning plays. The Colonel's letter was long or important, or both, as he was still attending to it.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam is certainly long at his letter. Do you know if he means to join us?" she ventured.

"He is writing his superior about his plans. I fear he may be longer still," replied Darcy. They looked down the room at the Colonel.

"Tell me; is he to return to his regiment? Shall he go back to the Peninsula after Rosings? He mentioned in passing that he was in Spain before, though he has not told me anything of his experiences there," she was quick to add.

"Yes. He is to return to Spain soon," Darcy answered, his face was unreadable and she speculated that Mr. Darcy had heard details of the Colonel's battle experiences. Elizabeth read the newspapers and a few of the militia officers were formerly in the Regulars but no man had shared with her the experiences of battle for which she believe she was grateful.

"What shall I play next?" she changed the subject looking back at her companion. He selected a piece, one she had played for him before, and spread the sheets before her.

It was only at the end of the evening that the letter was finished and then Colonel Fitzwilliam made the rounds of the tables first stopping to flirt with Miss Lucas a little before he made his way to the pianoforte to greet her again.

"Did you finish your business?" asked Darcy. The Colonel nodded.

"And are you really to be gone in three days?" cried Elizabeth sorry that they had not had a chance to speak. She heard the murmurs of the ladies as their game concluded.

"Yes. I shall need to be in Portsmouth on a ship within the week," said the Colonel. "I did not share that bit with you, Darcy, as I only just got the letter this afternoon." Mr. Darcy had looked up in surprise. "I had not wished to share that news with Collins over port. Miss Bennet if you could keep such news to yourself I would be grateful." His face, she discovered, could be equally as grave as his cousin's.

"I am sorry to hear you need to return to the Peninsula so soon, truly sorry, Colonel Fitzwilliam," she said softly. She felt at a loss for seeing a man off to war and, with a pang, not knowing whether she would see him again but also not knowing whether he would survive his experiences. To be an officer's wife had to be harrowing, the long separations and she thought, in part, she could see why some wives accompanied their husbands—to be near—to be sure of their fate had to be better than being far away and always wondering.

"May I play for you?" she asked as the only thing at hand she could offer him. He readily agreed to the scheme though she heard the Ladyship's carriage being ordered across the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, like his cousin, had a favorite and she played it for him, her last piece of the evening.

He stood by the instrument his hands on the top and studied her face and posture as she played with an enthusiasm and a _joie de vivre_ and as Darcy turned the pages. She could feel both men's eyes on her, full of admiration of her playing and of _her_ ; she could not but admit to herself. It was exceedingly flattering to be so admired by two such great men and her vanity was high as she finished her tune.

* * *

The next morning she set off on another walk with her sister Jane's last letter in hand. She had only had one chance to read it through and wished some privacy to reread and to dwell on some particular passages. Jane was not happy and Elizabeth indulged in worries about how those low spirits must affect Jane's health when she was met by Colonel Fitzwilliam. She put the letter away and forced a smile.

"I have not run into you out walking for a long while," she said as a distraction from her thoughts.

"I have been making a tour of the Park," he replied," and generally do every year and intended to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much father?"

"No. I should have turned in a moment." And accordingly she did turn and they walked towards the Parsonage together.

"Do you certainly leave on Saturday?" said she.

"Yes. As I mentioned last night it cannot be put off."

"It must be difficult to be at the beck and call of your general."

"It is the way the army works, Miss Bennet. I am thankful that I was able to come for my annual trip to Rosings," he replied.

"How stupid of me," and she blushed, "I did not mean any disparagement of your office or the army. I was not thinking. My mind was on different matter—a letter I myself had."

"From an admirer?" he teased, not having taken her comments to heart.

"From my sister; she is not in the best of spirits. While I have enjoyed my visit with Mr. and Mrs. Collins I am anxious to see my sister again and to see if I cannot help lift her spirits."

"Back to our last conversation under these trees," he raised both hands up and indicated the ash trees sheltering them, "I believe you are attempting to find that family ideal by being the best sister you can possibly be, are you not?"

"Yes, I believe you are correct. Especially since the other options are not available," she answered.

"You are sure this letter is not from an admirer?" he pressed as though he had some knowledge that such a letter was winging its way to her. She looked over at him; his attention was fully on her just then.

" _You_ have not written me, have you not," she teased, "we both know _that_ , and I fear we also know I have no other suitors."

"No," he agreed, " _I_ have not written." He seemed suddenly inclined to drop the topic and she wondered as they paced on if there was some hidden message he was attempting to convey. Was he letting her know that as a younger son of an Earl he might not marry where he wished that _he_ could never write to her of his admiration though he did admire her, _or_ was he letting her know that she had an admirer and that this admirer was to shortly declare himself. Mr. Darcy! He was hinting at Mr. Darcy admiring her! She stumbled suddenly as her thoughts flooded her mind and she was not paying attention to her footing. The Colonel was not holding her arm and so could not prevent the fall and she landed hard and in an ungraceful heap.

The Colonel was by her in an instant. "Are you hurt?"

She tentatively moved one foot and then the other. One ankle was pierced with a sharp pain. "I fear I have hurt my ankle," she looked up at him.

"I can fetch help or you can lean on me and I can help you home," he offered.

"Let us try walking," she said. She needed both his arms to help her stand and Elizabeth blushed with the embarrassment of the whole thing but he lifted her upright easily. It required gripping his arm with both her hands to walk since pressure on the one foot was painful but she felt they were close enough home that she could make it.

They moved in silence for many minutes. Elizabeth was able to force her brain away from the sharp pain in her ankle by considering what she had just realized, what she believed Colonel Fitzwilliam was hinting at, that Mr. Darcy admired her. If he did, he was certainly a surprising lover as he was so often quiet when they were together. He did not talk excessively, flatter her or ferret her away from the rest of the company whenever they were together as Mr. Bingley had done with her sister Jane. Those had seemed to be sure signs of Bingley's admiration of her sister. There had come a point where Bingley had become inattentive to other people's conversations he was so caught up in his admiration of Jane.

Then she thought of herself and Mr. Darcy and of his cousin scolding him a number of times for his stupidity in conversations. Was he more animated in other settings but quiet and withdrawn because he admired her so much? She had always put his incivility down to pride, the poor impression of Mr. Darcy she had formed the previous fall which she had never bothered to amend but she was now considering what she knew of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam interrupted her thoughts.

"Perhaps you might like to rest, Miss Bennet," a tree stump beckoned and she sank onto it gratefully, her ankle throbbing. He looked down at her, his expressive eyes almost as dark as his cousin's. "I am genuinely sorry I did not support you, Miss Bennet. I hope it is but a small sprain and you recover quickly."

"I am, if I may, sorrier to be losing you," she ventured. "I have truly enjoyed your company and conversation, Colonel Fitzwilliam." She looked up at him with his plain face but a face that had character and where the details of that character were painted on it: his compassion, a command that spoke of his occupation, his responsibilities, and his love for his family. He was certainly a man to admire, though he did not apparently admire _her_ if he was hinting that his cousin did. He would not seek her out if Darcy also desired her.

"Colonel—if I may—I wish you well, all the best of luck when you return to your regiment," and she held out her hand to shake with his. He took it but pulled her gloved hand up to his lips as he bowed over her hand all the while capturing her eyes with his.

"Thank you, ma'am," he smiled down at her.

"I believe I am ready to attempt my return," she said holding out both hands and he helped her to stand and they made it the last section of the walk to the Parsonage. Mrs. Collins was quite worried about Elizabeth's ankle and wished to call the apothecary from town immediately but Elizabeth insisted they wash and bandage her ankle and she was ensconced in a chair in the sitting room, her foot elevated. The ankle throbbed and she had a dull headache as part of her tumble or from attempting to work out if Colonel Fitzwilliam was really hinting that his cousin Darcy admired her deeply enough to write to her and declare himself.


	4. Chapter 4

They were engaged to go to Rosings that evening to drink tea but Elizabeth, with her ankle and her headache, declared she would stay at home. Mrs. Collins thought it the best idea—they had no carriage to convey Elizabeth over—but Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being _rather_ displeased by her staying at home.

When they were gone Elizabeth distracted herself from thoughts of Mr. Darcy by reading through Jane's letter. It was characteristic of all the others she had received since coming to the Parsonage. Jane did not complain; she did not mention old grievances or list new difficulties. But there was a lack of Jane's usual cheerful style and Lizzy could read uneasiness within the lines. Soon, Elizabeth thought, she would be back home with Jane and helping towards more amiable spirits and a happy outlook. She could be a sister again to Jane.

Her thoughts moved to the two Rosings cousins and their departure. She thought she understood that Colonel Fitzwilliam had no intentions towards her and she was not going to be unhappy about that though she did admire him a great deal. Before coming to Hunsford she had a poor perception of officers based on her younger sisters' behavior and their admiration of the militia, but she now had a strong admiration of the army after knowing the Colonel.

It was the other point, his hints about a letter that had her considering all she knew about Mr. Darcy and she was recalling all of their little interactions together since coming to Kent and whether she could ascertain any symptom of love from Darcy for her when she heard the sound of the doorbell. Elizabeth conjectured it had to be one of the two gentlemen and hoped it might be the Colonel come to inquire about her ankle and to say one last private farewell. Her vanity and spirits were checked, however when she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In a hurried manner, he immediately began an inquire after her health, stating his visit was due from a desire to know that her ankle did not trouble her overly much. She answered him with civility. He sat down for a few minutes then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her and standing above her and her elevated foot, spoke.

"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

Some part of her may have anticipated such a speech when she saw it was Mr. Darcy come to call and not his cousin but she was still astonished to hear the words from him as her devoted admirer. She stared, colored, doubted and was silent as to how to respond. A small part of her thought 'it is a pretty speech,' but she did not reply.

Her silence he took as encouragement and he poured out all that he felt and had long felt for her. He spoke well but then diverted from the topic of her fairer attributes and of his tender feelings for her and spoke also of his sense of place in the world and of his sense of her inferiority and of the family obstacles he would have to face in marrying her.

Marriage, as she, a sensible gentleman's daughter knew all too well, was often about more things than love: station, comfort and security were also part of it and it was the only true occupation for a woman of her sphere. Elizabeth knew should she consider marriage, she should not base her choice solely on love as there were those other considerations. It was why she had never truly contemplated her former favorite, Mr. Wickham, who as a lieutenant in the militia and could not make much money. So she was not insensible to the tender feelings Mr. Darcy at first related to her and her vanity was again stirred at the compliment of such a great man's affections for her.

But his words of love being followed by some so ungenerous and against those people whom she did love was discouraging. While at the beginning she had wavered though she could not say she loved him in return, his pretty words had been strong enough to sway her to consider him—he was handsome, rich, and it would be an excellent match for her and her family. But his subsequent language swayed her back and she composed herself to answer him when he should be done. He concluded with representing to her the strength of his attachment in spite of all his endeavors to conquer it and he expressed his hope that he would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand.

It was not a moment to be at a loss for words, "I am grateful, Mr. Darcy," she began speaking, realizing she had to make a choice and also wishing that the scene was painted differently with a more eloquent lover asking for her hand as she could have imaged with Colonel Fitzwilliam or even Mr. Wickham a pretty speech but with no bitter ending, "I thank you for expressing your feelings so…eloquently," she stalled a moment, wondering how to lessen the pain of her rejection but realizing she could not and so continued, "I am sorry to bestow pain on anyone but must decline your offer."

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face seemed to catch her words with both resentment and surprise. His complexion paled with anger and it was visible in every fixture of his features. He was struggling to compose himself before he spoke again.

"That is your reply!" he was still angry. Any man who is rejected after a proposal must be angry. "May I ask why I am rejected?" She could see he was still working within himself to control his temper; he had thought he had mastered himself but once he spoke he realized otherwise.

"You spoke of your tender feelings for me—which was heartening—and yet you also said to me that those feelings went against your will, you reason and your character. How shall I take that Mr. Darcy? To so change a man's character? If I said yes to you today what if you changed your mind again in the future?" She paused to take a breath but he did not respond to her; he seemed to be doing everything he could to remain composed though she could tell he was not. "You also mentioned my family and your resentment over the potential connections with them. How shall I take those comments Mr. Darcy? A woman who is being courted does not like to hear about all of the negative aspects of a match, about relatives with vulgar manners or who might actually work for a living." She was attempting to paint a sensible portrait for him though she felt she was not making headway.

"I do not suppose it is my Aunt Philips's gossipy tongue that so affects you; I suppose it drove away Mr. Bingley as well?" She was attempting to end their conversation and return to a more light-hearted discussion but she saw him start and stare as his color drained.

"It was exactly that," he said.

"Whatever do you mean?" she cried, truly surprised.

"Mr. Bingley decided to leave Hertfordshire because of issues with family connections."

"How do you know this?" Her confusion showed on her face as she looked at him shift his position before her.

"He is my friend; we spoke of it."

She turned her head in despair to know that such had been the reasons for driving Bingley from Jane's side and causing Jane so much grief.

"I did not think that either Jane or I would be so little valued," cried she turning back to look at him, "that having an aunt whose husband is an attorney would so affect a gentleman. We are neither of us romantic and wish for sweet words only and be charmed, as I am sure that Mr. Wickham would use, but we would like to be valued for being the sensible creatures we are and not judged solely by our relation's actions," she finished fiercely.

"Mr. Wickham!" he seemed particularly upset at that gentleman's name.

"Perhaps I should have said your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, for he is a true gentleman and would not have proposed marriage in such terms: beautiful words mixed with bitter," she was growing angry over the lingering discussion and was wishing him away and losing her civility.

"My cousin, they were _his_ words!" his anger matched hers as he began to pace in front of her, unable to be in one place.

"Whatever do you mean 'his words?'" She felt her stomach seize as though she were taken ill. She shifted in her chair, her foot uncomfortable.

He walked with quick steps across the floor a few times and then stopped in front of her again and she felt compelled to reach down and adjust the pillow under her foot rather than look him in the eye.

"He and I spoke; I was feeling tongue-tied; was unsure of the best words to say and since he had similar feelings he was able to help me find the rights ones to use," he explained, and then faltered. She stared at him in horror then as the meaning of his words sank in—'he had similar feelings'—she was ashamed now but still angry with the entire embarrassing situation.

"Are you telling me, sir, that Colonel Fitzwilliam has equal feelings for me yet it is _you_ who are here proposing to me using words _he_ provided? How did you decide who would propose to me? Did you cut cards for me?" and she turned her head with a sob and to catch her breath and wipe the tears from her eyes. Heartily did she wish him gone now and would have exited the room had her foot allowed it. She composed herself enough to turn back to face him, to look up directly at him. "I had, heretofore, considered you both gentlemen, but I can now see you both only choose to wear the trappings of that station but _do not deserve_ to be called gentlemen though you are supposed to have been born to that sphere. Your manners tell me a different story. Good evening sir!"

His astonishment at her distress and then his mortification was easily read on his face. He seemed to be frozen for many moments while her words settled into his brain. Darcy seemed, at first, incapable of any reply but did give her a stiff bow, "Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."

And with these words he left the room and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house. Her only recourse was to cry for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by a review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for so long. Yet that somehow the two cousins had discussed Darcy's proposal between them! It was mortifying that gentlemen would do such a thing and she blushed deeply at the thought of it. Could she have understood what Mr. Darcy had said correctly and that Colonel Fitzwilliam had similar feelings for her?

She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her realize she would present quite a picture to her friend. She wiped her tears and attempted to compose her face. Her ankle prevented her from moving so she could only proclaim, in answer to Mrs. Collin's concerned face, that her foot was the culprit for her pained face and request to be helped to her bed.

* * *

Elizabeth thought she would not sleep but found the exhaustion from her pained ankle alone was enough to induce her to sleep though the instant she opened her eyes her thoughts were on the same meditations which had closed them. She could not truly separate out Mr. Darcy's comment about Colonel Fitzwilliam's words from Darcy's proposal as flattering and then mortifying as that had been. She attempted to understand what he meant about finding the right words and about Fitzwilliam's feelings for her and she realized he had not truly explained it nor had she given him a chance to. In attempting to be fair she considered it possible for one man to ask another for advice though when _she_ was the object of that advice it became more sensitive of a subject.

Using her ankle as an excuse she had delayed her morning routine, breakfasted late and then excused herself in the parlor with some embroidery to pass the time while she thought more about her evening. It was near impossible that Mr. Darcy would seek her company this, his last day, and she considered he might share his experiences the previous evening with Colonel Fitzwilliam so it seemed unlikely that the Colonel, out of a sense of loyalty, would call.

Mrs. Collins and Maria joined her in the room. Maria had a lot to share about the tea at Rosings the previous evening and Colonel Fitzwilliam's attentions. Mrs. Collins smiled and looked over at Elizabeth to share a look about lovesick and flirtatious sisters. Maria then went on to lament that the Colonel was to leave though he had promised one last call at the Parsonage.

"Is he to call this morning?" cried Elizabeth, alarmed.

"He said he would," Maria was adamant.

"What if he is too busy with last minute affairs?" Elizabeth offered the Colonel an excuse for not coming even though he was not there to take her up on it.

"But he promised," Maria pouted and then looked down at her work, frowned and had to pull out a stitch.

"Gentlemen lead far busier lives than we do and do not always keep their promises," remarked Elizabeth to herself.

"It would seem out of character for him not to come," said Mrs. Collins who eyed Elizabeth.

"We shall wait and see," offered Elizabeth hoping that she did not have to endure such a visit. She had almost finished the area of her project that she had set as her goal that morning and had even been distracted by it and not her thoughts when they heard the doorbell ring.

"See!" brightened Maria, "it is the Colonel!" And she began to frisk about as the other two women straightened their work.

To Elizabeth's astonishment, both gentlemen entered and she could not help but blush at seeing Mr. Darcy again. They settled themselves and, to her horror, Mr. Darcy came to sit next to her on the sofa near the window while Colonel Fitzwilliam sat between Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas after all the pleasantries were over.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam, we shall certainly miss your visits and yours as well, Mr. Darcy," remarked Mrs. Collins nodding to the two men in turn.

"Oh yes, I shall be sorry to see you leave," said Maria.

"I thank you," said the Colonel, "I, we," he looked at his cousin sitting almost across from him, "have certainly enjoyed our visits here. It has added a special warmth to our annual visits to Rosings," he looked at Elizabeth who had looked up at him while he made his speech. She thought he had an extra smile for her as their eyes met.

There was a pause in the conversation and lest it be too awkward with Darcy beside her, Elizabeth felt the need to join in.

"You are to truly ship out so quickly? Do you know when you shall return home to England?"

"Yes, I am for Spain next week. And so long as Napoleon remains a problem I fear I will be on the Continent," it was more of a pained smile then.

She felt she needed to prove that Darcy's presence did not affect her so she turned to him, "what are you to do after you leave Kent, Mr. Darcy?"

"I am to go to London to spent time with friends," he remarked. They did not catch each other's eyes but looked out more at the rest of the company as they spoke.

"How exciting!" said Miss Lucas. "I should love to go to London—for the season no less!"

The talk turned to London and its delights and Elizabeth bent over her work letting the others carry on the conversation. Their end of the room was far quieter than the other but occasionally she or Mr. Darcy made some remark about the subject at hand.

"You are dutiful at your work," said he so near that she jumped a little. She could not help but turn to look at him.

"I have almost finished this one part," she answered indicating the section.

"May I see?" and he held out his hand. She was surprised by his request and still felt an acute embarrassment at any encounter with him after the previous evening. She dutifully handed her piece to him and he seemed absorbed in examining it, turning it this way and that as he looked at her work. "Very well done," he declared and gingerly deposited it on her lap.

She went to clasp it and noticed there was paper tucked beneath, at least two sheets that she could tell and rather than betray them both by looking boldly at him or pulling the letter out in the open—for that was what she guessed the paper must be—she tentatively slipped the missive into her pocket all the while staring forward at the others, not once turning to look at her partner on the sofa.

The gentlemen stayed long but finally rose to take their leave. Mr. Darcy shook hands with her then went to say goodbye to his hostess and then Colonel Fitzwilliam was there, leaning over her with her propped-up foot, and shaking her hand warmly with a great smile and some pretty words about their acquaintance and with hopes of meeting in the future though it might not be for a twelve month. His handshake was large and he ended by taking her small hand between both of his.

"Very glad to have met you, Miss Bennet," and he bowed.

"The pleasure has been mine," she replied with a nod, and when her hand came away she was the owner of a small square of folded paper which she hastily added to the ones from Mr. Darcy. One last curtsey from Mrs. Collins and Maria saw the men out of the door.

Maria proved to be in a bad temper with the leaving of the gentlemen and stomped around in an offended manner the rest of the day. Elizabeth dared not read her missives in public in the sitting room so had to wait until retiring that evening to set her eyes on the notes.

* * *

Mr. Darcy's letter covered two pages but Colonel Fitzwilliam's was a small single sheet and read.

 _Miss Bennet:_

 _A gentleman always behaves as a gentleman whether or not a lady is present._

 _Yours, etc. Col. F._

Mr. Darcy's letter began with an assurance that it was not a renewal of his addresses but contained a justification for the reasoning of his proposal the previous evening. He detailed the situation of her mother's family but then went on to elaborate about the behavior and want of propriety displayed by her mother, her three younger sisters and even, on occasion, by her father. He did beg her pardon for any offense he might be giving to her by setting it down on paper by assuring her that both her and Jane's conduct had always been honorable and blameless.

It was of little consolation to Elizabeth—to read of what held truth about her family in terms of such mortifying yet merited reproach, made her sense of shame severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly to deny; she had never been blind to the lack of propriety displayed by her family as he asserted though it still hurt to see it in print. The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt or unappreciated. It soothed her a small bit but could not entirely console her for the contempt she felt for the way her family was viewed if she admitted that truth. Elizabeth considered his points and the likelihood that Jane's disappointment with Mr. Bingley had been the work of their own family and she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.

He then, before mentioning his cousin's part in the proposal, brought up the subject of Mr. Wickham.

"You mentioned last night, Mr. Wickham, and that if you ever received a proposal of marriage from him he would use 'sweet words.' May I warn you, as a friend, that Mr. Wickham is not the man he appears to be. He has profligate, scandalous ways and is a gambler, a trickster, and a seducer—pardon my frank words. He is not a man to be trusted. You may, perhaps, discount anything I would have to relate—I realize you well may wish to never converse with me again—but if you doubt my character may I ask you to turn to Colonel FitzWilliam. He is as familiar with Mr. Wickham's story as I am."

"To address the issue that caused you so much distress last night and for which I regret my turn of phrase. My cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam and I both value your friendship, your intellect, your wit and I believe it has been obvious we both hold you in high esteem. You are a remarkable woman, Miss Bennet. After that first evening at Rosings where you were so stalwart as to stay at the pianoforte and play for us without a break I shared with my cousin my hopes. Edward Fitzwilliam is like a brother to me. I am sure that your sisters might likewise confide in you in the same way. He told me you were a beautiful and admirable lady and was very encouraging of my suit. I fear I am better at writing than I am at speaking and I wished to ensure that my address to you was correct so I consulted my cousin. In the end I still did not succeed in my goal and spoke of matters that distressed and angered you and condemned me in your eyes. I apologize again as I mention the one subject which so greatly distressed you and for which I will never forgive myself. I mentioned that my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, admired you but never did we, as you put it, 'cut cards' for you or in any other way decide one of us had a more pressing need for you than the other. He has always been the gentleman. You have been in my heart and mind since my arrival here and it was ever my goal to declare myself to you though I found myself at a loss for the words to do so at so many opportunities. I still consider myself lucky to continue to have the friendship and support of my cousin. Yours, etc. Fitzwilliam Darcy."

7


	5. Chapter 5

Vittoria, Spain, June 1813

He was fighting under Wellington again, but not directly; he never had the privilege to report directly to the great man. His regiment was part of larger battalion and was at the center front of the fight that day. Fitzwilliam's division had been thrust at the enemy early that morning while Wellington maneuvered other divisions around him fighting King Joseph and his forces. Fitzwilliam considered what a privilege it was whenever Wellington led the fight for Wellington almost never lost that his strategy beforehand—he had such a head for logistics—and his tactics the day of were why he had risen from obscurity and risen up through the ranks to lead men in battle, and was a man to be admired in so many ways.

He thought back to the Siege at Badajoz the year before which had been such a bloodbath; they had sent in a Forlorn Hope and it been with such a sense of despair to watch 500 men throw themselves at the city walls attempting to find a small break in the fortifications and hope for ten or twenty to survive the assault but in the end it opened up a breech in the walls and they did take the city. The loss of life had been tremendous with bodies stacked ten or twelve high, blood flowing as if a river in the trenches around the city walls.

Wellington had wept openly, cried tears at the loss of life the day afterwards and it had taught Fitzwilliam a lesson that he could be a fighting man, a campaigner and like Macduff in that play, weep for his family—his fellow soldiers—and yet 'feel it as a man.' Do what he needed to do on the days he was called upon to fight and still be alive, a living creature, a man, afterwards.

* * *

The sabre cut through the left side of his uniform, ran across his rib cage and slashed down towards his leg. He leaned away from the stroke lashing out with his own, unsure if his was more than a glancing blow. His movement to dodge, or the instinct to, rather, to pull away from the cutting edge of the enemy blade unbalanced him and he fell off his horse. Artillery exploded, his opponent's body was ripped into by it and grapeshot tore into his right shoulder as he fell.

The pain from the wounds and the fall exploded through him and he took ragged breaths through his mouth trying to remain conscious but darkness came, first over his eyes and then his mind and the battle stilled around him.

"Sir, I've got you sir," said a deep voice in his ear and he could feel hands on him and his body being moved, straightened. There was pain everywhere within his body as hands passed over his chest, his shoulders, touched his legs and creating such agonies of torment he called out and found himself breathing hard and fast as though he had run uphill and not just wakened from a blackout. The same hands then laid pressure against one shoulder and on his chest and though painful it was not the same pulsating pain and the pressure was comforting. His eyes were still closed and a wave, a shiver of cold and of pain ran the length of his body and darkness came over him again.

He heard the murmuring of voices, a low, familiar, gravelly voice and a softer one. Heat baked his face but the rest of his body was cold; he shivered and then felt his legs twitch and spasm and the sensation worked its way up to his stomach and he retched.

A soft voice was in his ear, "sir, lie still," and gentle hands turned his head to the side and he felt a wet cloth on his face, cleaning it.

"Elizabeth, we still need to cut the uniform off here," said the deep voice.

"We cannot, the shoulder…" he did not follow the conversation but took hold of the name: Elizabeth. He conjured up the image of a beautiful woman with dark eyes, a laughing smile and a joie de vivre that had enchanted him that spring. He took in a huge breath before letting it out though the pain of that action was immense. Elizabeth. It was enough, just enough to keep him going though he wished only to return to darkness and give up to the overwhelming pull to give over to the pain and be gone; loose his hold from the world and be gone.

2


	6. Chapter 6

Pemberley, July 1813

Despite the fact that they had been traveling for days none of them were tired. The three of them were such a compatible party; their natures so similar in what they desired from travel, their temperaments so compatible that they rarely disagreed about how long to spend at a place or whether they should not try to press on a little longer or linger in this town and be more at leisure.

Elizabeth sat across from her uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, as they neared the town of Lambton, their current destination for the day's travel as it had been the location of Mrs. Gardiner's former residence before her marriage and she was seeking out some old acquaintance who still remained there.

They had been traveling in Derbyshire for almost a fortnight taking in all the principal wonders of the county. Mrs. Gardiner, in looking out of the carriage window, declared that their route took them quite near the turning to Pemberley.

"I should like to see Pemberley again; it has to have been a dozen years since I have visited." Her husband agreed to her request and they turned to Elizabeth. "My love, should you not like to see a place about which you have heard so much?" said her aunt.

Elizabeth could not answer immediately; she had never shared Mr. Darcy's proposal with any family member but her sister, Jane. She earnestly felt that she had no right to go to Pemberley, his home. "I am tired of great houses after going over so many and have no real pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains," she argued.

"Really dear, if it was merely a fine house, richly decorated," scolded her aunt, "I should not care myself. But the grounds are delightful, as I recall, and they have some of the finest woods in the country."

Elizabeth said nothing else and hoped the subject would not be brought up again. It was a topic her mind wished to not have to consider; the possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy would be dreadful. She had not seen him again since that morning when he had slyly pressed a letter into her hands after failing to win her hand and her heart. Mr. Bingley had not returned to Meryton so she had no news of him through that quarter. How Mr. Darcy fared in the interim she knew not, though she did occasionally think of him and his affection for her and wondered if she had made the correct decision that one evening.

She had not wanted to be swayed by anything he had to write but she had allowed his arguments some merit on rereading them and thinking through his points when she was calmer, her ankle mended, and especially when she had returned home. The behavior of her younger sisters was wild; she had to affirm he was correct in that. Her mother was an ignorant woman whose head was only occupied with matrimony for her daughters, or for entertainment, and full of the follies in her pursuit of both objects. And though Elizabeth loved her father and was grateful for what he gave her, she could not but despair at his failings to check his herd of women. She had to admit that Darcy's points were convincing though she stuck by her assertion made that evening, that no lady wishes to hear such evils when proposed marriage.

She still retained both his letter and Colonel Fitzwilliam's relating to her misunderstanding with both of them about their intentions and behavior. Men must talk about the women they admire with each other just like women do. She hoped that they did not gossip and titter as much, especially as young girls did, but Mr. Darcy said she had been in his heart before coming to Kent and given the Colonel had been on the Peninsula, the two cousins' joint visit to their aunt had likely been Mr. Darcy's first opportunity to acquaint his cousin with his desires and to seek Colonel's Fitzwilliam's advice and approval.

The letter had greatly improved her opinion of Mr. Darcy though she had wondered about the strong words against Mr. Wickham. Mr. Wickham did not like Mr. Darcy—that had been well known to Elizabeth and even to all of Meryton for Wickham widely spoke of their disagreement—but she could not find the specific wrongs in Wickham when Mr. Darcy did not give her the specifics; she could not see his air of address and charm as a bad thing.

Mrs. Gardiner was lost in remembrances of her former life and of seeking out her former friends and acquaintances and did not mention Pemberley again. A chambermaid at Elizabeth's lodgings shared that the master of Pemberley was indeed currently away and at her leisure Elizabeth found she was curious to see the estate so when the subject was revised at breakfast by her relations, Elizabeth answered she was interested in seeing the place. They agreed to go that very day.

Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a wide valley was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground and backed by a ridge of high woody hills and in front was a stream of some natural importance. Elizabeth was delighted. She had not seen such a fine composition since coming to Derbyshire.

They were taken over the house by an elderly housekeeper who, while she showed them over the house and revealed its treasures, had more to say in glowing favor of her master, Mr. Darcy, than she did about the house. Mrs. Reynolds could not say enough about him and it gave Elizabeth new insight into the man. He was a good-natured man, said Mrs. Reynolds. He seemed so quiet thought Elizabeth that she never thought of him as "good-natured;" it was a characteristic she usually associated with cheerful, talkative men.

The housekeeper could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms and the price of the furniture in vain. The housekeeper did return with energy to Mr. Darcy's many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.

"He is the best landlord and the best master," said she, "that ever lived. Not like these wild young men nowadays who think of nothing but themselves. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw it. To my fancy it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men."

"This is incredible…" thought Elizabeth. "What an amiable portrait this paints of him."

In the picture gallery there were many family portraits but they were of little interest for her. Elizabeth walked in a quest of the only face she knew. At last she found it and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy. She felt, suddenly, as she peered at him, a fluttering in her chest as she thought of the man; a sense far more kindly towards him than she had ever felt. The praise from Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. Every idea, every character about Mr. Darcy which Mrs. Reynolds mentioned was favorable and as she stood before his likeness she thought of his regard for her with a deeper sense of gratitude than she had ever had considered. Had she been wrong to reject him?

It was as they were leaving the house and she was thinking of Mr. Darcy with a more agreeable impression and a deeper sentiment of gratitude that she turned to look out at the lawn and she saw the actual man of her thoughts come forward from the road which led behind it to the stables. They were within twenty yards of each other and so abrupt was his appearance their eyes found each other across the expanse of lawn and it was impossible to avoid him, to look away. He absolutely started and his feet were fixed to the ground staring at her. He recovered and approached her.

Elizabeth had turned away from him; the awkwardness of being found there knotted her insides but she did turn to receive him. He stood in front of her and asked question after question with a politeness and softness of voice she had never seen in him as if he had taken instruction from his cousin. She was amazed at the alternation of his manner, how kind and attentive he was when she herself could not raise her eyes to meet his. She felt increasingly ill with each question, increasingly embarrassed at being found there—the impropriety of it after her rejection of his proposal. He was not entirely composed and he repeated a question or two which spoke of his own distraction. He finally grew quiet—he seemed to have run out of civil questions—the silence grew until he then bowed and took his leave. Her aunt and uncle then came up and had much to say about Mr. Darcy but she heard not a word of it as she was consumed by her own thoughts.

She was vexed with herself. Such was their timing, her bad luck, and she blushed over the perverseness of their meeting. That Mr. Darcy should even speak to her was amazing but to be so civil was extraordinary. He had been gentle at this unexpected meeting when he might well have been cross and stormed off without acknowledging her.

They followed their guide, the gardener; it was the Pemberley woods that had been their real object for coming, after all, though now she was not sensible of any of its aspects. She answered mechanically to any questions. She did eventually bring her eyes to note the woods, the inviting stream before them and those small openings which delighted the eye. They crossed the stream by a simple bridge, in character with the rest of the Park. Elizabeth looked at the woods and longed, suddenly, as was her nature, to explore its windings and looked then down the stream towards the house, and was arrested by a figure: the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them. And then he was there, among them in the woods, and asked to be introduced to her relations.

He spoke with the greatest politeness to her and her uncle and aunt. They all began to walk back towards the house, Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Darcy speaking with animation of sport. Mrs. Gardiner looked with interest and a great deal of curiosity at Elizabeth though without asking outright about Mr. Darcy's presence among them. Elizabeth revealed nothing but listened to Mr. Gardiner discuss a variety of topics with the master of Pemberley. Here was a relative he could not object to: Mr. Gardiner's every word showed his intelligence, his taste and his good manners.

At some point Mrs. Gardiner felt fatigued and she requested her husband's arm for support so they switched; Mrs. Gardiner took her husband's arm and Elizabeth walked with Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy explained he had come the day ahead of some friends who were due to arrive at Pemberley soon.

"There are some of my house party with whom you are acquainted, Mr. Bingley and his sisters," he said. There was a pause. "Perhaps, if your visit in the neighborhood is of a few days' duration you might have time to renew old acquaintance?"

She replied that their plans were fluid but that she would be pleased to see Bingley and his sisters again.

"There is someone you have not met but I should like to introduce, would you allow me to introduce my sister to your acquaintance?" he asked.

She was flattered and pleased and readily agreed to it. Such civilities brought to mind that she had not asked about his own family and accordingly she did, inquiring first after Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh.

"They are both well," he replied.

"Are they to remain at Rosings for the summer?" asked Elizabeth.

"Yes, Anne cannot travel, as you know, due to her health," he replied.

"I am sorry for her and take heart in what you and your cousin do for her," she said.

"I thank you," he answered.

"May I ask how Colonel Fitzwilliam fares?" she then asked.

"I have had two letters from him since his return to the Peninsula. The last letter was from early in June when he complained of the heat and the food as is his want. He is well," answered Darcy.

"I am very glad to hear," she replied, much relieved.

They had reached the house and her aunt and uncle followed a few minutes later. The parting on each side was with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner into the carriage and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.

Her aunt and uncle had a lot to say about Mr. Darcy as they drove away. It had been a delightful morning and they had been surprised by the attentions from the master of Pemberley. Both had heard other accounts of his manners yet found him polite and courteous. Elizabeth spoke up to share that she had spent more time with him in Kent and had become better acquainted with him there.

* * *

He was driving his new curricle but not speaking to Georgiana with the groom right up behind them, within earshot. There were only two inns at Lambton, but he had overheard Mr. Gardiner give his coachman the directions as Elizabeth and her family had left Pemberley the day before.

Luck had always been on his side even if he was not blessed with all the talents other men possessed. He was not inclined to social situations, large gatherings, and far more content with home and family and though losing his father had been difficult it afforded him the excuse of having the reins of Pemberley to take up rather than engage in the wilds and excesses of his peers, as Wickham had done. He considered a wife and children long before anyone of his friends did—before anyone spoke aloud of such things—but never truly had his heart turned until he met Elizabeth Bennet. She had such a joyful way about her that he had not seen in any other young woman. She was beautiful, playful and witty and that seemed to be his undoing since he often found himself at a loss for words, studying too long for the right ones that he missed conversations. It did became easier, the closer acquaintance or friends he became with a person and it was why he so loved his cousin, even Bingley, two men whose conversation came easily and who he had known for years.

He had just turned down the street and he spied her walking with her family at the other end, but towards him, not away. They met at the inn and while the groom held the horses, he helped Georgiana alight and introduced her to Elizabeth and the Gardiners there on the street. Elizabeth had color in her cheeks, perhaps from their walk, perhaps from their meeting, and Mr. Gardiner called them all to walk into the inn, calling for a private parlor, and refreshments.

They all settled, for the most part, easily into chairs. Mr. Gardiner sitting next to Darcy as though wishing to speak more on fishing and sport—he was a man who loved amusements though it was rare when he could get away to pursue it. Darcy spoke to him for a while but did look as often as he felt he could at Elizabeth and in looking at her face recalled her sister and his friend.

"Mr. Bingley mentioned he might too come this morning," he said to her and then his footsteps were heard in the hallway outside and his friend was there. Bingley brightened any room, an ability Darcy had always admired about him as both Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner turned toward him with an eagerness to know him better though they had never been introduced before. Bingley sat by Elizabeth and suddenly they were lost in conversation and he felt cheated that this visit, to introduce his sister, now had him speaking to Mr. Gardiner and not to Elizabeth.

Georgiana was quiet next to him, staring more at her hands in her lap than in taking in the faces or the conversation of their new friends, and he reached out a hand to gently touch her arm that she know her duty and join in.

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were an elegant and a well-bred couple and Darcy took a quick liking to them, it was easy to converse with them, there was not such awkwardness as with other new acquaintance. Mr. Gardiner was certainly a man of intelligence and good manners for all that he was in trade in London. He considered that his aunt, Lady Catherine, would be duly mortified to find him conversing with such a man but he reflected that despite her breeding, Mrs. Gardiner's manners were, perhaps, better than his aunt's.

He finally recollected the time and rose to depart, looking to his sister, who had returned to her rapt attention for the gloves in her lap, and called for her to second an invitation for their whole party to come to dinner. He looked pointedly at Elizabeth to see how she took it but she turned her head and his heart sank, he was unable to ascertain her meaning with such a gesture. Did she have no desire to come or was she embarrassed? They had been separated the whole morning to his vexation and could not converse as he had wished. But Mrs. Gardiner caught his eyes and she heartily accepted and a day was fixed on.

* * *

The evening with Mrs. Gardiner's friends was long in passing and Elizabeth's thoughts were at Pemberley and she was hard pressed to focus on the people about her, in front of her, when she was meditating about all she knew of the master of Pemberley. Mrs. Gardiner's friends spoke highly of him; he was well liked and respected as a master and landlord. He could, perhaps, be accused of pride, but it seemed a small thing to Mr. and Mrs. Alport amongst his other qualities.

Mr. Wickham was also known to the Alports and had been a friend to one of their sons until some falling out. That Wickham had some quarrel with Mr. Darcy was known but what they had quarreled over was imperfectly understood. What was known was Wickham had left many debts behind him when he left Derbyshire which Mr. Darcy discharged and that Mr. Wickham was not well liked in the neighborhood.

Armed with a multitude of information, Elizabeth lay awake for hours to consider all she knew about Mr. Darcy and attempted to determine her own feelings. Since April there had been a growing respect for his valuable qualities. Their first disastrous meeting at the assembly ball last year had created a dislike for him which left little room for reasonable character traits but as she had discovered at Rosings she could not keep stumbling into him, conversing with him, without also discovering admirable ones. The thoughts of Darcy's love for her, his stated affection carried weight. Colonel Fitzwilliam had gone away and said nothing: it was only Darcy who told her that Colonel Fitzwilliam admired her, had similar feelings, not the Colonel himself. The Colonel never declared himself. Mr. Darcy had said he was well and Peninsula news was that King Joseph, Napoleon's brother, was gone and the French were being routed from Spain. She had been so comforted to hear that Colonel Fitzwilliam had, so far, survived unhurt and unharmed.

If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection she thought she was in a good way to loving Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth had been taught to discount affections arising from first acquaintance or a short one, as with Colonel Fitzwilliam; no one who claims to fall in love at first sight comes to a happy end. So her affections, if she admitted to them, just now, for the Colonel were forever to be questioned. Theirs was the acquaintance of just a fortnight's time—she had known Mr. Darcy longer—and though she and the Colonel had never found anything to disagree on, not books or music, travel or even events on the world stage, Colonel Fitzwilliam had bid her adieu and been obliged to return to his regiment to do his duty to the King. Elizabeth certainly thought of him frequently though she meant to keep her promise to not be unhappy about their separation.

She compared Mr. Darcy and his cousin and her feelings for each. She could instantly pull up in her mind the excellent manners and civil address of Colonel Fitzwilliam, his charm even, and of their long discussions on a variety of topics. She had to temper her feelings for there was a fluttering in her heart if she considered him too long or worried over his health and she turned to thoughts of his cousin.

Elizabeth thought about her new-found respect and esteem for Mr. Darcy, especially in light of his friendlier nature these past two days and of all the testimonials she had heard—from his housekeeper, his gardener and his neighbors. She was grateful to him, for it seemed as though he still loved her enough, given his attentions that morning—and continued to value her—and she wondered if she should encourage him? She felt she had come close to accepting him last time but they had quarreled over words. Could she love him? Did she love him enough? It was amazing to her that he sought her out at all. He ought to have avoided her as his greatest enemy and yet he seemed eager to preserve their friendship and with no resentment about their past encounter. He must still ardently love her. Such a devotion merited a second look.

She respected him, she esteemed him, she was extremely grateful to him—were these enough to base a marriage on? He was quite handsome and she had to smile as she brought an image of his face to mind. Elizabeth considered they were probably well-matched in a number of ways and she would have good expectations of happiness, and it would, as she had speculated before, be an excellent match for her.

* * *

They were to call on Miss Darcy; Mrs. Gardiner had been insistent on matching such a civility and they had plans to call at Pemberley first thing in the morning but Elizabeth received not one, but two letters from her sister Jane. They delayed the start of their visit while Elizabeth was to read her letters; Mr. Gardiner was to escort his wife out for a short walk while she read them.

The first letter was disconcerting as it related that their youngest sister, Lydia, had run off to Scotland with George Wickham. Jane bemoaned what a poor match it was since their father could not support the young couple beyond the small dowry Lydia was expected to receive. It was upsetting to both their parents, however, and distressing to Jane that Lydia would act so foolishly.

The second letter was quite shocking. It seemed that no marriage had taken place between their sister and George Wickham. The couple had been traced to London but not beyond; they had not gone to Scotland to marry—and Wickham's former friends in the corps believed he had no intention of marrying Lydia, that Wickham was not the type of man to be trusted. Both Mr. and Mrs. Bennet expected only the worst possible end for Lydia but Jane had hopes for a better outcome despite Lydia's folly. She begged Lizzy and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner to return and to assist the family at their time of need.

Elizabeth had no hopes of a happy outcome for Lydia as she stood to instantly retrieve her uncle and aunt from their walk.

88888

He had come to try his luck again; he remembered Fitzwilliam's advice to him before, recalled their first encounter and thought simply to ask her again, "you still have my heart, will you accept my hand in marriage?"

Darcy followed the servant up the stairs but as the door opened she was waiting just beyond it, but pale and distressed. She excused herself in some way and stepped forward as though to move past him. To fetch her relations, she had said.

"Good God! What is the matter?" he could not help crying out, reaching a hand out which he then withdrew. "I will not detain you a minute, but let me or let the servant go. You are not well enough," he was truly affected by her lovely face brought to the brink of tears; "you cannot go yourself."

She looked overcome with a multitude of emotions and he was pleased when Elizabeth asked the servant to fetch his master and mistress back home quickly and stayed in the room.

She stood without speaking to him or acknowledging his presence and he longed to comfort her, an arm around her waist to give her strength. Instead he offered her what he could, asking to get her wine, or her maid.

She assured him, though still without looking at him, that she was well but then burst into tears as she alluded to news—troubles from home—from Longbourn and fell into a chair.

His heart sank as he could only stand and watch her in her distress without being able to comfort her as much as he should like to offer her his shoulder or kiss away the tears. He balled his fists at his sides as he listened when she finally spoke and told him that her younger sister had run off, and eloped with Wickham.

His hands splayed out and grabbed his thighs as he stood to listen to her tale. Wickham, whose profligate ways were so known to him, whose charming face he could so easily conjure up before him in his mind. He had done so little to curb this childhood adversary of his. He had known him since they were youth, thrown together by his father—often with Fitzwilliam—in sport, in learning under the same tutor, at school once they were sent away. But Wickham had a wild, untamed side, was given to all the vices young men can indulge in and he never thought to deny himself any of them. Few young men, even Darcy and his male cousins had not tried their hands at cards, drank to excess or tasted of female delights but Wickham had a passion for all of them.

Darcy was grieved to hear that Elizabeth's sister had fallen prey to Wickham.

"The horror," she cried as she covered her eyes.

And he probed, asked if it could really be certain, if so, this must fall on his shoulders. He had never taken Wickham to task, pursued justice for Wickham's vices when his exploits had become injurious, more than simply pleasures, but destructive behaviors.

Elizabeth assured him it was so and that her father had already gone to London to attempt to recover the sister but that Elizabeth had little hope. "It is every way horrible," she cried.

His mind was working fast then. Wickham might want female companionship, not be able to be without it for long but he would need money soon as well and not be likely to navigate his way around London without help. And Mrs. Younge had moved to London. He would seek her out and find them in short order, he was sure.

He realized he was pacing the room and he came to, looked at Elizabeth. He told her of his real concern over her distress. She and her family were to have come to Pemberley for dinner—he had hoped to announce their engagement to everyone. He frowned. He offered her an excuse, said he would apologize for her to his sister which she readily accepted.

He then looked at her tenderly, hoping to be off to London that day, resolve her family's crisis soon that he might truly make her that second proposal.

* * *

A/N: Largely familiar territory, but necessary. Some additions and changes and with some different POVs. Our protagonist is back in the next update.


	7. Chapter 7

Ordal, Spain, September 1813

His shoulder bothered him incessantly. The saber wound had been particularly deep at the beginning of the cut though his opponent had lost strength as he drew his blade at the end so his leg wound was comparatively light and superficial compared to the gash that had wrecked his shoulder. Fitzwilliam had already once split open the wound having to endure another fortnight of bandages, of the weeping fluids that leaked from it, and yet still attempt to dress in a uniform.

Battle had been light since June. Most of the combined British, Spanish and Portuguese forces had been nipping at the heels of the French and chasing them to the Pyrenees along a northern corridor with the intention of chasing them completely and forever into France. But there were still other French troops holed up in the east in Valencia and up through to Barcelona to be routed, and Colonel Fitzwilliam and his and other regiments had been working there against the remaining French forces. Most of the fighting were not the big battles which they had seen previously, but smaller skirmishes, the Spanish had a term for it 'guerillo' or it had been anglicized to guerilla meaning small ambushed raids and attacks instead of those full-frontal battles that they were more used to, had seen more on the Peninsula in the past or on the Continent.

And that wily French Marshall surprised them, so near the sea that Colonel Fitzwilliam thought he could smell or sense a difference in the air in their encampment that evening.

The British had fought bravely despite some gross errors at the beginning of the day but their general had been wounded and then the acting commander had been wounded. The Spanish forces had fought fiercely and with honor, fighting again and again to fill in their lines in an attempt to hold against Suchet's forces when the French broke through with their overwhelming numbers and in the end the combined British and Spanish forces were defeated and the day went to the French. They had to pull back and retreat. And somewhere in the confusion of that retreat the Colonel got lost and the darkness that had allowed the initial attack from the French to overwhelm them did at least allow his forces to sneak away and he was able to find his way out with his compatriots. The terrain they retreated through was steep, forested, rocky slopes with little light and he slipped, there was a pain against part of his head and he lost consciousness.

When he came to he was cold and it was as if a repeat at Vittoria where he was uncertain of his surroundings and he woke again to voices but this time it was not comforting voices directed at him but he heard arguing in Spanish. He was cold, everywhere he was chilled from his skin through his muscles to his bones, barely able to move; his limbs could barely respond to his commands. He opened his eyes to the dawn and he could see Spanish peasants standing some ways off and having what can only be described as a heated discussion, shovels in their hands, and they seemed to be pointing in his direction. He moaned and sat up and they left off talking and stared at him with suspicion.

He had nothing on him; his body had been stripped of any coin, any ornamentation, no weapons lay next to him or strapped to him. His jacket was gone and as he sat up the pain in his shoulder told him that the saber wound had once again reopened. There were various mounds of dirt around him and he suspected that the two men near him who stood still and quiet simply staring at him now—there were others far off—had been hired or ordered to bury the dead after the battle.

So many of their skirmishes had gone to their side it had been perhaps arrogant of the British and Spanish combined forces to have assumed that they would always come out ahead in coming up against the French and if reports from his general had been correct this had been Marshal Suchet, who was one of Napoleon's best. He stood and made his slow way to the peasants and in his broken Spanish spoke to them.

It had been a day and night since Suchet's surprise attack against their combined battalions and he wondered at his exhaustion and the lump on his head. He also understood that the British forces had fled east towards the sea and he figured that was his best effort, to follow. He knew there were British at the port of Valencia, perhaps help at Tarragona which was closer. But while he could hope to get a boat he only had the clothes on his back, and very little clothes at that, but there was a dagger in his boot. He would have to walk and beg his way to meet up with his forces.

It took him over a day to traverse the unfriendly terrain and walk the twelve miles to the sea. He was thankful for his wealthy upbringing, for his custom-made boots that they were so difficult for grave robbers to remove and for the knife that had been stashed there. He gleaned what he could to eat as he walked though he was constantly hungry and drank at streams and finally came to the sea. He had to have looked a sight, dressed only in a waistcoat and having walked in the sun, not having shaved in a week and with his cravat serving as a bandage against his shoulder; no Englishman walks about with his throat exposed and yet there he was his chest open, chest hair exposed, looking far more like a Spaniard, perhaps more like a peasant than the son of an Earl.

It was a small port town, and after making inquiries, he found that the British had hired, two days before, boats to take them to Tarragona. With no coin he was not lucky in convincing any local man to take him south—he decided against selling his knife—though they were sympathetic to his plight, despite promises of payment when dropped off at the British port. One man sympathized so far as to take him home to a small house and feed him, insisting he sit at the table in a cramped house of only two rooms, full of children and youth. One young daughter, pretty and dark flirted with him as she stood at his side—there was not room or chairs enough to accommodate everyone at table—and he was cognizant of being excessively grateful to this stranger but her dark eyes brought Miss Bennet, his Elizabeth, to mind and strengthened his resolve to walk to Tarragona despite the thirty miles of coastline he would have to traverse. He rejected the offer of a bed on the floor before the fire—he suspected it would be displacing some children from their own beds—though the wife's gift of a loaf of bread and dried fish was gratefully accepted.

He bunked in a fish-scented alley with his precious gifts of food tucked under his waistcoat against rats and began his journey on foot to the next port city saying prayers for kind strangers and well-made boots. Three days, his Spanish friend had anticipated for the walking. His shoulder wound healed remarkably fast as he walked and he wondered if the sunshine on it and the air helped it along. He felt weak by the second morning when his food, which he rationed as carefully as he could, ran out. Yet he moved through the warmth of the days and the cold of the nights despite the bump on his head with a quick pace on the rough terrain considering all the while he was moving closer to home. Though they had been defeated days before, he knew the French were being routed and would be gone soon, Boney would be pushed back. Coalition forces were on the Continent at work to push Napoleon from all the territories he had gained there. And Fitzwilliam could return home to England.

He considered with anguish what his family was experiencing: did they even know he was alive? His dear Mamma, how would she handle this news? Had his general sent any news to them about his situation? Fitzwilliam could only hope that nothing was passed on and he could write home himself or deliver his message in person when he came home for good as Bonaparte and the French were routed from Spain and he could come home to roost and no more experience war.

It was as night was falling that he saw the lights of the city; it was still his second day out and his hunger and weakness spurred him on as Tarragona beckoned him. Foolishly he did not considering arriving at a potentially guarded town after dark and did not consider his appearance so he was taken aback to be challenged for entry. It almost made him weep to bicker with the Spanish guards in his broken Spanish attempting to argue that his torn garments, ragged hair and growth of beard were the raiments of an English officer and a gentleman.

"My boots, look at my boots," he called in tears then, pointing his leg out so his boot shone in the torchlight. And there must have been strength in such an argument that a messenger was sent to call a corporal to the checkpoint, an _English_ corporal who recognized Colonel Fitzwilliam and took charge of him.

* * *

A/N: to clarify a few questions: the story is told chronologically. Though the summary says it is about Fitzwilliam this does not mean Elizabeth and Darcy do not figure into it which is why I dance back and forth between them. As far as the M rating, I had two questions as to why. There are descriptions of sex, battles, and childbirth. There are also references to mistresses, prostitutes and drinking. So heads up. I have worked to have this be historically accurate (one exception which I will point out in the chapter) and it is also accurate as far as the mores of the time, not our 21st century mores. And it is part tragedy, which Austen did not write, so I think it is more Bronte, but with a little Saki thrown in, for some relief. Still, likely to not be a dry eye in the house by the last post.


	8. Chapter 8

Longbourn, October 1813

"My dear Mrs. Bennet," said her husband to her one morning as he held up the paper, "the news from the Peninsula is certainly good; we seem to be routing the French right to the border by all accounts. You need not continue to fear for your son-in-law, Wickham."

Mrs. Bennet stared at him unable to determine if he was making sport with her or not. He said nothing else but went back to his broadsheet so she ventured, "so, after all these horrible years of fighting in Spain the army is finally to withdraw? I worry so about Wickham and poor Lydia having to be sent there with their regiment. Having her stationed so far away from Longbourn is bad enough but if they had to go to Spain! Well!"

"Perhaps, my dear, poor Lydia would not be permitted to go; I do not believe all the officer's wives receive permission to travel with their husbands."

"But that would be terrible to separate them, newly married as they are!" she replied with outrage.

"Then, perhaps, you should wish _he_ does not get sent," was her husband's reply.

Elizabeth listened in silence to her parent's exchange, an almost weekly occurrence at the breakfast table as her father perused the news with a much greater interest than he had ever done before Lydia's marriage and speculated on the likelihood of his new son-in-law, George Wickham—now an ensign in the army—being called upon to serve his King and country in some capacity overseas. That her father had been disgusted by Lydia's elopement had been obvious but his pleasure at teasing his wife about Wickham being sent to war was a source of disquiet to Elizabeth.

Back in July, when she had left Derbyshire with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner everything had looked bleak and the family had little hope of finding Lydia and Wickham or of their marrying at all but the affair had worked out to the family's advantage. Lydia and Wickham's quarters in London had been discovered, a marriage had been arranged—despite the fact Wickham had not intended to marry his companion—and his life arranged: a commission in the Regulars purchased. The simple fact of a daughter married was enough to delight Mrs. Bennet. Mr. Bennet was less satisfied with a son-in-law forced to marry such a girl, one who would run away with him _and_ to worries now about Mr. Gardiner's involvement, especially any out lays of money related to the whole affair. There was, therefore, some tension between the parents about the daughter and any news concerning her.

What no one, even Jane, knew was to whom the entire family owed the restoration of Lydia—Mrs. Bennet's youngest and favorite child—to Mr. Darcy. After her marriage, Lydia and Mr. Wickham had come for a short se'nnight visit to Longbourn before they joined his new regiment and in an unguarded moment Lydia had let slip the fact that Mr. Darcy had attended her wedding in London. Armed with this fact, Elizabeth had written to her Aunt Gardiner and requested information about Darcy's presence there.

Such a letter she received in reply! For it was Mr. Darcy who had found Lydia and Wickham in the warren of humanity that was London, negotiated, cajoled and then most likely bribed Wickham to marry Lydia after her sister could not be persuaded to leave his side. Mr. Darcy asserted to her relations that his motive for helping their family had been that Mr. Darcy had been too reserved in the past; he knew, from personal experience, that Wickham should have been brought to task for Wickham's past injustices, of which he knew the details, though he did not specify; he was a man young women should be kept from, but Mr. Darcy had hesitated to bring Wickham's character to light. Mr. Darcy said he did not wish to lay his own private actions open to the world to expose Wickham but was now motivated to rectify these past injustices.

Mrs. Gardiner implied throughout her letter that both she _and_ her husband gave Mr. Darcy another motive for his actions and had been sincerely surprised by Elizabeth's request for information. He had done so _much:_ found Lydia, negotiated with Wickham, and purchased Wickham's commission. This for a man he abhorred according to all accounts and a girl he once declared he despised. Mrs. Gardiner's letter hinted of Darcy's particular regard for her and Elizabeth could not discount such an observation from her aunt, particularly as it was enforced by her uncle's expectations as well. _They_ saw Mr. Darcy's love for her, even now, and her feelings of gratitude were almost painful. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, everything to him and yet would they ever be able to thank him?

In reviewing her feelings for Mr. Darcy she was sensible of some pleasure along with that respect and esteem she had come to realize for him in the summer, especially in light of her aunt's conviction that there was some understanding between Mr. Darcy and herself.

* * *

It was during tea that very afternoon that Mrs. Bennet received news of a joyous kind her sister, Mrs. Philips, brought word that the housekeeper at Netherfield Hall was preparing for the arrival of her master who was to come shoot there for several weeks. There was a lot of talk in the Bennet drawing room as to the nature of Mr. Bingley's visit and Elizabeth could not but turn her eyes to study her sister Jane. Jane paled upon hearing this news but had not ventured a word about it and later, when they were alone, she assured Elizabeth that the news did _not_ affect her and she would not be concerned by the visit from her former lover. Jane stated she only feared what others, potential gossips, might think.

Elizabeth was not sure how much Jane was being truthful; she deeply suspected her sister still cherished hope for Bingley's returned affections and Jane's spirits were definitely changed over the course of the next few days. After having seen Bingley in Derbyshire, Elizabeth was convinced he still thought highly of Jane. Elizabeth found her own spirts a little affected in wondering if he was to bring any of his former friends, and whether Mr. Darcy was to be among the party.

One morning, not many days after hearing that he was to come, Mr. Bingley came to call and he brought his friend with him to Mrs. Bennet's displeasure; she asserted, of Mr. Darcy, she "hated the very sight of him." Elizabeth immediately considered why Mr. Darcy had come and whether it was to see _her._ Though how he could now consider aligning himself to her family, to be brother-in-law to Wickham seemed an impossibility, yet her eyes had peered at him through the parlor curtain; he was at Longbourn and she would have to see how he behaved to attempt to ascertain any expectations. Was he voluntarily seeking _her_ out or was he merely coming as a friend and companion to Bingley?

Neither Jane nor Elizabeth was comfortable during the visit. Both men behaved as they had in the fall: Mr. Bingley sounded pleased and happy and was the principle conversant in the room, talking mostly with Mrs. Bennet. Mr. Darcy had the same serious, studious look he used to wear and did not display the pleasant manners he did when she was at Pemberley. He did not speak much, not more than was necessary. He was the thoughtful man from the fall and she found herself disappointed and even angry when she wanted so much to express to him her gratitude for all the things he had done for her and her family.

"Why did he come?" she asked herself over and over. She was had no patience for conversation with anyone but Darcy and to him she had no courage to speak. She inquired after his sister but could do no more.

Her mother and Mr. Bingley spoke on a wide variety of topics, local news, of Lydia's marriage, of which Mrs. Bennet crowed a great deal: far too much for Elizabeth's comfort. Mrs. Bennet had much to say when Elizabeth felt too little should be covered and the topic changed. How Mr. Darcy looked about that subject she did not know for she could not look in his direction, but fixed her eyes on her work. But after too many minutes of lamentations by Mrs. Bennet about Lydia being so far away from her, Elizabeth took the reins and introduced a new question—the length of Mr. Bingley's expected stay.

"A few weeks," he answered.

 _This_ answer pleased Mrs. Bennet whose mind raced with schemes for Jane. For though the two lovers spoke little yet Mr. Bingley turned more and more towards Jane as the visit went on. He appeared to find her just as beautiful and as good-natured as before. When the gentlemen rose to go, Mrs. Bennet invited them to dine at Longbourn in a few days' time, eager to get Mr. Bingley back again.

* * *

As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked outside on the lawn to consider Mr. Darcy's behavior and its meaning. He was silent, grave and indifferent, almost exactly as he had been the previous fall, as if nothing had occurred between them in the interim, but if he was to be so quiet, bordering on uncivil, why had he come? Did he no longer care for her? In Kent, his silence, she now knew was because he _did_ love her, an embarrassment or shyness of manner. His cousin had admonished him that he was often more talkative and she had later seen that more civil and pleasing side of Mr. Darcy when they had that small time together at Pemberley.

She walked, buffeted by winds on a cold, October day about the lawns and gardens of Longbourn attempting to fully ascertain how she felt about the gentleman. Their acquaintance had been so full of contradiction. She had once been so angered with him for their bad beginning and now that the first impression had been mended it seemed they would never have a change to see if they were compatible, at least, for herself to ascertain if they were.

Darcy's understanding and temperament were unlike her own. His manners still needed softening; for a man of such a station in life he needed help with navigating social settings. Yet, she considered again how grateful she was that he loved her, had loved her one time enough to propose, loved her enough a second time that her vanity had been flattered to expect he would propose while in Derbyshire had not their time together been interrupted. Was that last morning call to be another proposal? She often wondered at odd moments in her days if it had been his purpose. And was it love still that prompted him to pursue Lydia and Wickham to London, out lay all the time and money he did to restore Lydia's character? Darcy had so much he could offer Elizabeth, his judgment, information and knowledge of the world would be of great benefit to her.

But did he mean to preserve his acquaintance with her? Were there to be indications that his interest, his heart, was still hers and he meant to consider her, propose marriage again now that he was back in Hertfordshire? Such a thing was almost unfathomable, a second proposal. In Derbyshire when his intentions were bent on such an outcome he had sought the attentions of her uncle and aunt and was bent on making her known to his sister. This previous afternoon he had been—indifferent—and she wondered how to read such a change in his behavior. Had his feelings altered since the summer? Despite what he had done for Lydia? His professed excuse for helping Lydia was his hesitancy in the past and his need to make amends. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps he was only here to support his friend's courtship of Miss Bennet and then he would go away and he and Elizabeth would never more meet. Perhaps he no longer cared for her yet was to be silent in her company. It was a vexatious of him and she resolved to not think about him. Perhaps it was because of what he had done for Lydia that he could no longer pursue her.

Jane joined her with a cheerful look. Jane had been quite happy with the visit. She expressed an easiness with Mr. Bingley now that this first meeting, after eleven months of separation was over, that they were but simply common and indifferent acquaintance. Elizabeth, however, told her she thought Mr. Bingley was as much in love with her as he ever was.

* * *

On Tuesday the two gentlemen came, along with other friends, to supper. Mr. Bingley placed himself by Miss Bennet at every turn and his admiration of her was evident to everyone. Elizabeth drew great pleasure from watching Mr. Bingley's attentions to Jane though it was still not an assured outcome; he might yet finish shooting and leave again. Still it gave some animation to Elizabeth's spirits for fate, or dumb luck, parted her from Mr. Darcy at every turn. They were on opposite ends of the table at dinner and after the separation of the gentlemen, Mr. Darcy was induced to play cards, Whist, with Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth was confined to a different table the whole evening.

As soon as their guests left Mrs. Bennet was in high hopes, convinced, on that single evening alone, that Jane would get Bingley as a husband at last.

* * *

A few days after the Longbourn supper party the gentleman called again in the afternoon. Their mornings had been principally involved in their sport, declared Bingley, but they felt in want of society so had come to call.

Mrs. Bennet was delighted with the visit and had Elizabeth making the tea so that Jane and Bingley might only sit next to each other and converse. Though with all eyes on them and in a room full of people every look and word between them was noted.

Mr. Darcy, at least, could find a seat near enough to Elizabeth to speak and while she was finishing her duties she asked again about his sister. "Is Miss Darcy at Pemberley still?"

"Yes," he replied, "she will remain there till Christmas."

"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?"

"Mrs. Annesley, her companion, is with her. The others have gone on to Scarborough these three weeks."

Mary wished for more tea and Elizabeth obliged her sister. Darcy was silent.

"How is your aunt, Lady Catherine? And Miss de Bourgh? Are they well? Mrs. Collins has not written for many weeks so I have no news of Kent," she ventured.

"Lady Catherine is well. I fear Anne has not been in the best of health, there was a London physician called in for a consultation just recently. My aunt, at least, attempts what she can for Miss de Bourgh."

"Will Anne's health improve?" Elizabeth asked tentatively.

"Anne will not live to see old age, I fear," he replied.

"I am very sorry to hear that," she answered sincerely. Laughter from Bingley brought them back to the room. Most of the Bennet family sat around Bingley and Jane and watched the couple which left Elizabeth and Darcy in their corner with the tea things.

"Oh, Mr. Bingley to miss your shot three times in a row," laughed Mrs. Bennet in a high voice. The talk was obviously about the recent shooting.

"I am not such a crack shot as Darcy; he bags his birds every time! Right Darcy?" called Bingley to his friend.

"It is a particular sport of mine," answered Darcy with the cool and even uncomfortable manner she had seen at the dinner party. He had seemed to be warming up, just then, but still had trouble being more companionable around her family. How was she to take that?

"You must come shoot with Mr. Bennet!" declared her mother, fixing her eyes first on Bingley and then on Darcy.

"I believe we are free tomorrow, Darcy?" called Bingley. Darcy sat for a second or two and then acquiesced to the plan.

"Do not forget I was to travel to London," Darcy added vaguely, though particularly to Bingley.

"Oh! Yes!" blushed Mr. Bingley. "You were to go to London for a few days."

The plans for shooting were confirmed among them and the topic turned to the weather. The current cold, excessively windy bout that continued disheartened most of the group.

"What are you to do in London, if I may inquire?" said Elizabeth, calling him back to their corner.

"I was to visit family. My uncle and aunt are there visiting my eldest cousin."

"How delightful," she replied but her immediate thoughts considered which uncle and aunt of his was this. Could this possibly be his uncle, the Earl, Colonel Fitzwilliam's father? Her mind flew to thinking of the Colonel and his welfare.

There was a pause then, both in their small conversation, and the general one in the room and she wondered if the gentlemen would rise to go. Bingley, however, did not seem inclined to stand and take his leave and some other subject came up.

Elizabeth did not know whether she had the courage to ask about Colonel Fitzwilliam and she and Darcy sat silent listening to the others. She had so much to say to him yet not with such an audience, however, and she feared she would never be given an opportunity to do so. It was as she sat next to him, in frustration, Darcy silent and perhaps indifferent that she felt they could be happy together. That the respect and esteem she felt for him engendered love. She would be forever grateful to him for his loving her and all that he had done for Lydia.

She turned to look fully at him, his handsome face, though he wore no inviting smile, and thought she could do no better. She had not intended to marry, only if she fell passionately in love, but here was a man whose ardor for her had stood the test of many obstacles and who, she believed, would make her happy in marriage. He caught her eyes and what she was feeling and expressing to him made him shift in his chair and though his mouth did not smile in return his eyes shown with love and devotion. She looked down at her lap.

Kitty was before her, suddenly, with her own and her mother's tea cup wishing for more and Elizabeth obliged her.

Mrs. Bennet attempted to entice the gentlemen to dine with them but they apologized that they were committed elsewhere and she was obliged to let them go, silently cursing the Gouldings for engaging them.

Jane said no more of her indifference; she spoke little to anyone of her feelings but no longer argued for she and Bingley being 'mere acquaintances.' Elizabeth could see that her hopes and expectations were high for addresses from Bingley but also no longer could fathom speaking of her admiration for the gentleman as though to do so might induce him to flee from the county again. Elizabeth also felt that if Mr. Darcy had ever objected to the match, he did not do so now and had sanctioned Mr. Bingley's pursuit of Jane.

* * *

The gentlemen were punctual in their appointment with Mr. Bennet and spent the morning together as agreed upon. Mr. Bennet was surprised by the agreeableness of both of his companions; there was something of rashness or folly to be expected from Mr. Bingley and hauteur from Mr. Darcy but he saw neither from either young man. They were communicative and the morning was a far pleasanter one than any individual member expected. Mr. Bennet induced both young men to return with him to a late dinner and they then stayed to tea afterward.

Mrs. Bennet surveyed the room with a great anxiety to get Jane and Bingley by themselves. She looked particularly at Mr. Darcy wondering about his presence and the perverse bad luck that he had not yet started on his trip to London; she felt she should have been lucky with her schemes for Jane and Bingley without his being there.

Despite the hour of the day, she called out to them over her tea cup, "I suggest you all go out for a walk before supper, if the gentlemen will stay and join us for a family meal." She had, of course, planned for such an occurrence and had a formidable menu prepared.

The gentlemen readily agreed to stay but the plans for a walk, after Mr. Bingley peered outside were dropped as it showed every indication of so many of their previous October days: cold, gray and excessively windy. "I fear it is too inclement for a walk," he lamented.

"Perhaps you and Jane might like to walk in the gardens, it is more sheltered there," she suggested, ever hopeful.

"Mamma," said Kitty, "I think it is raining." Mrs. Bennet did not rise and go to see for herself but sighed and gave up.


	9. Chapter 9

After the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Mr. Bennet retired to the library. Mary excused herself to go to her instrument. Whist was suggested but there was not enough to make two tables. Elizabeth said she had a letter to write; it had been long while since she had written Mrs. Collins. Mrs. Bennet encouraged the two gentlemen, and Jane and Kitty to play—despite her own fondness for the game—but Mr. Darcy declined saying he too needed to write a letter. The two letter writers settled at a small writing table—she on one side, he on the other—while the other four laid out the game table.

The game table was lively with conversation; the small table where Elizabeth and Darcy sat was quiet. They were intent at their letters. As seemed to be the tenor of his visits, Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Bennet did the majority of the talking with Jane and Kitty joining in only occasionally. Elizabeth looked up to watch the table for many minutes and to watch her sister and Bingley in particular. If Mrs. Bennet's schemes to get Bingley and Jane alone succeeded she was sure he would propose such was the ardor on his face and she thought happily that time only was wanted to make Mr. Bingley Jane's professed lover.

She looked back at her letter to Charlotte having forgotten where she was in its creation and instead found a sheet of paper with a number of lines on it and looked up in surprise at her companion but he was studiously writing. A letter to his sister, Miss Darcy, is what he had said was his goal that evening.

"You still have my heart. _My_ affections and wishes are unchanged; please tell me that yours have changed. I am to travel to London first thing tomorrow and whether I return quickly or not at all depends on your answer. I would be deeply honored if you would accept my hand in marriage."

She stared with an awkwardness at such a situation in a room with her family one table away. The flutter of her spirits rose high within her and colored her face and she thought of all that she wanted to say to him yet was prevented from saying so she dipped her quill in her ink and wrote:

"yes,"

under his lines and slid the paper the short distance back across the table to Darcy. His finger tip alighted on the paper and moved it with slow determination in front of him. His happiness burst out of him, Elizabeth could sense that though he did not raise his head to look at her, a smile crinkled his face as he stared at the one word on the paper. Then, he did look up at her and there was such love, such ardor in his eyes she felt how much the strength of such a man's affections were, how very valuable they were.

There were cries over some play at the Whist table and the couple glanced over to hear Mrs. Bennet exclaim with great joy over a hand. Elizabeth looked back at Darcy who turned to look at her. They sat in awkwardness at being unable to speak and yet sitting just two feet apart, close enough to touch. Perhaps it was just as well, during his first proposal it was with words, spoken words, that they had stumbled into problems. He picked up his quill to write and she attempted to do the same but she watched as he wrote another line on their missive, not on Miss Darcy's letter.

"Will you meet me before I go to London tomorrow?" she read on the paper.

"How long will you be in London?" asked Elizabeth out loud.

"Two or three days," he answered, all the while they wrote back and forth planning their rendezvous in the morning. "My trip is part business, part pleasure and its length depends on a number of factors," he looked decidedly at his friend then and Elizabeth wondered if part of his reason for going was to allow his friend time to declare himself to Jane, as if Mr. Bingley needed Darcy gone in order to accomplish his wooing; she speculated he just might.

"I so wish to go to London," declared Kitty, joining suddenly in their conversation. "Jane and Lizzy have been a number of times, and even dour old Mary once went to the Gardiners to stay but I have never been," she pouted.

"I am sure you shall have the opportunity _some_ day," placated Elizabeth.

"Even Lydia got to go to London," continued Kitty in a peevish tone.

Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how this reference affected him but he was too full of thoughts of love for her to consider the reference to Lydia, and by extension, to Wickham.

Their missive was folded and placed in his pocket and they returned to their letters though each had a difficult time concentrating on them when they would rather be elsewhere with a thousand topics to be discussed between them.

The Whist party finally broke up and the gentlemen reluctantly left after quite a long day at Longbourn; Mr. Bingley, though he could not dine with them again the next day said he might call for tea and they departed. Mrs. Bennet prayed that the weather would cooperate sufficiently for a stroll as she retired to bed. Elizabeth considered, as she trailed up the stairs what had occurred in the parlor. It was too early to say anything to anyone, even Jane, as she felt she and Darcy must at least _speak_ first about the engagement before she _spoke_ to her family.

* * *

There was no rain, but it was a wet ground and there were many puddles in her path to spring over in her impatient walk to meet Mr. Darcy early the next morning. He awaited her at their agreed-upon spot and she slowed, color rising in her already flushed cheeks and a smile coming to both her lips and her eyes as she looked at him in his caped great coat, ready to travel after speaking with her, cutting a handsome figure against the gray sky. Impatient to be with her, he came down to meet her and once reaching her held out a hand which she surrendered into his. He held out his other and she placed her gloved hand on it; then those hands pulled her to him in an embrace she had never known and bent to kiss her, despite the brim of her bonnet. It was far different from the stolen kisses from various young men in the neighborhood and she leaned into him, her hands on his chest, enjoying this first, real kiss.

They separated and he tucked her arm through his and led her to the shelter of the meeting tree and then, with words, repeated his offer which had been set down on paper the previous evening. She acquiesced with her own, using more than a single one to let him know her sentiments had changed and it was with gratitude and pleasure that she received his present assurances. His happiness then, was such as he had probably never felt and he had much to say about his feelings, his ardor, and his hopes and Elizabeth did not think she had ever been able to give any one single person so much happiness, his warmth and animation were so infectious to hear that she was content to listen to all that he had to say.

They did speak about more than their feelings for each other; he asked whether his letter had been a hindrance or a help to her in explaining his position and she explained that it had helped.

"It was difficult to acknowledge, you had painted the correct portrait of my family and for a while I allowed it no justice, it was too close to the truth. But I do not live in a cave and did eventually acknowledge its merits and your praise of Jane and I was kindness itself.

"Can I take this opportunity for thanking you for your kindness to my poor sister Lydia? I have been anxious to acknowledge how truly grateful I have felt. Were anyone else in my family to know; I am sure they would thank you as well. And, after last summer, I see that your words about Wickham were all too substantive though I did not sanction them at the time. "

Darcy was surprised to hear she had knowledge of his actions; Elizabeth was beginning to see his sensibilities on his face or in the set of his shoulders when before she might have thought him just proud or without feeling. Experience was teaching her that.

"It was only for you, for yourself alone," he said, his voice lowering. "To give you happiness, a happiness that was within my power to give _that_ was the force that led me on. I only thought of you," and his hand reached around her waist to pull her up to his chest, within his arms in a fierce hug and he kissed her leaving her no doubt as to his feelings for her.

"I must begin my journey," when she was once again on his arm, "but I shall hurry back," he said looking down at her. "I will speak to your father when I come back; he will, no doubt, be in a _pleasant_ mood already." Elizabeth looked up at him as her suspicions were confirmed.

"So you _are_ to go away so Mr. Bingley can pay his addresses to my sister!" she cried. He looked a little surprised at her perception and then a little sheepish.

"Yes, Bingley's modesty is such he would rather do this with as little of an audience as possible, which is why his sisters did not come but went to Scarborough."

"No man wishes for an audience yet you managed it very well," she said with pride. He smiled and she thought how becoming such happiness was to his face. He kissed her one last time and then turned and departed.

The one part of his letter they did not discuss before he walked away was his cousin's role in helping Darcy to woo Elizabeth. She considered that she did not, perhaps, wish to know more of the Colonel's influence on Darcy. Was it the same sort of influence that Darcy had on Bingley? That she still so highly regarded Colonel Fitzwilliam gave her pause to begin such a conversation with her now betrothed. Fitzwilliam would be her kin in marrying Darcy and she would leave it at that.

* * *

The weather alternated between gray and blustery and small gaps where bits of blue sky managed to show in places and the trees did not shake with a madness of fits but when Mr. Bingley came to tea the skies had closed up and the wind practically escorted him into the afternoon parlor. Mrs. Bingley had to give over her schemes for getting Jane and Bingley alone that day but Elizabeth considered that everyone except perhaps Mr. Bennet was attempting the same happy end and so by the end of the second day of Mr. Darcy's journey everything was concluded between Bingley and Jane to the satisfaction of all her family. Mr. Bennet's consent was obtained, Mrs. Bennet had forgotten all about her youngest daughter as she contemplated the match—five thousand a year, Jane was so beautiful she deserved such a husband—and her three remaining sisters were happy that such a vexatious courtship had finally been properly concluded.

* * *

Elizabeth had little chance for conversation with her sister about her own betrothal. She had not the opportunity, now that it had been truly fixed and discussed, to share her news with Jane. She had wished to share what had passed between Mr. Darcy and herself with her beloved Jane but there was no chance to do so. Bingley was at Longbourn from morning to evening and there was more than _just_ an engagement to share with Jane, there was Rosings and Pemberley and all that Darcy had done for Lydia to discuss as well.

Jane and Bingley were the focus of everyone's attentions while Elizabeth spent her days agitated, wondering what would be felt by her family when her situation became known. She was aware that no one liked him but Jane and she even feared that with the others it was a dislike that not all his fortune and consequence might do away.

* * *

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet as she stood at the window one morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy has not returned and is coming here with our dear Bingley. I wish that he would go shooting or something and not disturb us with his company." Elizabeth blanched at her mother's speech, it was the fifth morning since Darcy had gone away—longer than he had stated—which had given her some cause for concern since she could not expect a letter to explain. She was vexed, also, with her mother for always giving him such an epithet.

As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively and shook hands with such warmth as left her in no doubt of his good information. It made her feel a little ashamed of not having broached the subject with Jane and when he had walked to her sister she followed him with her eyes and wondered if she would receive such a response from Jane—and then she wondered if Bingley would speak of it to Jane assuming _she_ had.

"Mrs. Bennet, you are always suggesting a walk and this is our first fine morning in many a day," said Bingley before they were all settled in chairs. Mrs. Bennet said she was not a great walker, Mary could never spare the time, but Jane, Elizabeth, Kitty and the two gentlemen set out.

They soon became two groups as Bingley and Jane lagged behind and Kitty—who seemed to be enamored of the pair as though by observing them she might imitate them and obtain a beau of her own—stuck by them. Elizabeth and Darcy soon outstripped the others and once assured of not being overheard expressed their regrets at being apart for so many days and their happiness at his homecoming. Mr. Darcy was especially so expressive stating he had not known such troubled days and he regretted his delay in returning to her and not being able to inform her of the delay.

He was a lover and had much to say about his affection for her and for a time that was the only topic of conversation. He must account for all her perfections and for all of the little reasons he fell in love with her. It was something; Elizabeth had to admit, to be so valued. She thought of that conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam about home and family and realized she needed to begin shaping a new vision of home for herself. For she would now, in a few months' time, be leaving her childhood home and moving to Pemberley as a wife and as a sister.

"Have you written to Miss Darcy?" she asked.

"I have, I know she will be delighted. She has always wanted a sister," he replied, "she was sad at your parting this summer. I know you will both delight in each other."

Elizabeth asked permission to also correspond with Miss Darcy which he readily gave her.

"And how was your trip? You stated it was partially for business reasons. Did you discuss _our_ business with your family?"

"My estate business was successful. But no, I did not mention _our_ business; I felt it incumbent to first secure your parent's consent before I share my joy with my own family," he replied.

"And was your visit with your family agreeable?" she inquired.

He was silent then.

"I do not wish to intrude upon any family matters," she said. "Is everyone in health? It was your uncle, the Earl of Dunchurch and his family that you visited?"

"Yes, Earl Dunchurch. They are all in health." His tone was soft. She did not wish to pry any further but with Colonel Fitzwilliam on her mind she had to broach the subject, and ask the question.

"May I ask how Colonel Fitzwilliam is doing? Have you news of him?" His face became a mask then but not unreadable to her; her knowledge of him was teaching her that. "What has happened? Tell me!" she cried.

They walked together for a few more minutes and she waited, impatient to know and yet knowing not to say a word more, that he would respond. Her mind was whirling and she thought again about being an officer's wife and constantly wondering about your husband's fate. The two minutes Darcy took to compose himself was torture; how would she have suffered through days or weeks waiting for news as a wife?

"Fitzwilliam is missing," he said at last. She felt her body sink and was thankful for Darcy's arm. She stopped walking and his arm wrapped around her to hold her upright.

"For the most part the French have been routed from Spain and Wellington has them pushed to the borders of the Pyrenees," his voice was even, "but there are still forces, French forces near Barcelona and there was a battle that went badly for the Spanish and British troops—they were up against Suchet, one of Napoleon's best Marshals—and Fitzwilliam is unaccounted for after the retreat."

She shuddered and his other arm came to enclose her.

"What does that mean?" she asked. He seemed reluctant to tell her, would much rather talk of his love for her but she leaned back in his arms to look up at him.

"Either he was killed and his body not identified," he began, "or he was separated, somehow, and not able to, so far, rejoin his battalion, or he was taken prisoner. There are reports that the French took over 500 prisoners from the battle."

"So there is hope," she said clinging to him. Both her arms came up to his chest then to grasp his lapels.

"Bleak hope," he replied, "none of the outcomes bodes well and now that I have accounted to you for my delay in returning to your side I hope you will forgive me." He kissed her then though her mind was on his cousin and whether he lived and in what manner, it could overwhelm her, thinking through all the scenarios and she had to lock them away and remain in the present.

As they returned to Longbourn it was resolved to tell her family that evening. Mr. Darcy was to seek Mr. Bennet's consent. Elizabeth reserved to herself the application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome Mrs. Bennet's abhorrence of the man.

Neither of her parent's consent was easily obtained. Mr. Bennet, whose out-right opposition she feared, did give his approval, but he was distressed by her choice and it was only after relating to him that she did, in fact, love Darcy and was not indifferent to him—despite harsh words once used against him—and she explained to Mr. Bennet how she had grown to value him over time. She concluded with telling him all about what Mr. Darcy had done for Lydia. Here he was even more pleased as it saved him the bother of economizing to pay back Mr. Gardiner for what had been done for Lydia.

When her mother went up to her dressing room at night, Elizabeth followed her and made her announcement. Mrs. Bennet sat still for many minutes, then recovered murmuring about how rich Mr. Darcy was and how great Elizabeth would be. "What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages you will have! Jane's is nothing to it, nothing at all. I am so pleased—so happy. Such a charming man, so handsome, so tall. Oh, my dear Lizzy! I pray apologize for having disliked him so much before. I hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town!"

Elizabeth left her mother to her flutters but before she had been three minutes in her own room, her mother followed her.

"My dearest child," she cried, "I can think of nothing else! Ten thousand a year and very likely more! 'T is as good as a lord! But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of, that I may have it tomorrow."

Many minutes after her mother quitted her room, Jane knocked and entered. It was not in Jane's habit to be suspicious but after hearing her mother's exclamations from her sister's room and having watched Elizabeth and Darcy walking that morning—and in some small hint from Bingley—she came to speak to her sister.

"Lizzy, what was Mamma talking about?" asked her eldest sister.

"Jane, I have such news!" said Elizabeth clasping her hands to bring her to sit with her, and she opened her heart to Jane.

Jane's suspicions had not gone that far and she could only exclaim, "You are joking!"

"Well, Mamma did not seem to believe so. She is so excited as to ask me what Mr. Darcy likes to eat," and Elizabeth laughed.

"Lizzy, it cannot be. I know how much you dislike him," Jane seemed to wish to argue with her.

"We have both changed and are to be married," insisted her sister.

Jane looked doubtful and suspicious still; Elizabeth assured her of the truth of her engagement.

"Good heaven! Can it be really so? Yet I must believe you," cried Jane. "My dearest Lizzy, I congratulate you; but are you certain? Forgive the question—are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?"

"There can be no doubt of that," Elizabeth replied considering in her mind all he had done for them. "But are you pleased Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?"

"Very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more delight. Do you really love him quite enough? Lizzy, do anything rather than marry without affection. Are you sure that you feel what you should for him?"

"Oh, yes," she cried. "I love him better than I do Bingley. I am afraid you will be angry." Jane frowned and did not laugh at her teasing sister.

"My dearest sister, now be serious. Let me know everything. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?"

"It has been coming on so gradually that I hardly know when it began;" Elizabeth's eyes danced with merriment, "but I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley."

Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the desired effect and Elizabeth spoke of her respect and esteem for Darcy, her changed sentiments, and her growing love. She then shared the measure of his involvement in Lydia's recovery.

Jane's affectionate heart could not but be affected by what Mr. Darcy had done for Lydia and for the whole family and she began to believe what Elizabeth said about her own growing regard for Darcy. Jane could not but be pleased, such an alliance could not please her and Bingley more and she thought about Elizabeth as mistress of Pemberley.


	10. Chapter 10

Lisbon, December 1813

Colonel Fitzwilliam stood at the quayside watching the continual bustle of activity. A royal army ship lay in port and was being unloaded of cargo, all supplies to be sent to Wellington to the troops up at the border though perhaps they had, by now, crossed over and were fighting the French on their own soil.

He ran his hand over the bristle of his three or four days' worth of beard. He missed Moor, John Moor. His valet had been killed in the battle at Ordal and he felt it was a burden he would not be able to ever repay. Moor had braved the fighting at Vittoria to retrieve Fitzwilliam's broken body and heal him; finding a traveling nurse, Elizabeth K.—in reality a soldier's wife—to staunch his bleeding, bind his wounds and then Moor had shielded him from vermin and looters until the Marquis of Wellington had won the day and the casualties could be accounted for in a proper manner. Then Moor had stayed by his side through the long days of pain, as Fitzwilliam had wavered in and out of consciousness, cradling him, caring for him, healing him. Caring for his body's needs in all capacities, far beyond what any man should be asked to do. The Marquis still lived, Fitzwilliam still lived, Moor did not and such was war.

Fitzwilliam had, since being reunited with his battalion at Valencia, not dared to engage another valet and so took to his own care for he had no real possessions to speak of anyways. And once or twice a week he could engage a roving barber to shave him. Some of his fellow officers had made a lot of money from the spoils of war, especially after the battle of Vittoria, but as he had been out of commission that day he had missed the chance to partake of a great bounty—King Joseph's left-behind treasures—as so many officers and enlisted men had done.

Perhaps this ship might take him on the ten to twelve day journey home. He might be home for Christmas or by the New Year. If not on this ship there would be another, in a week or ten days' time that would carry him home. His new appointment in a staff post in London gave him flexibility; it also meant his need to return home was not a pressing one over supplies or whole regiments to be moved.

His general had explained that letters to his family, his Mamma, had been dispatched to explain his status as _missing_ after the battle with Suchet so his family had stopped writing to him and he could expect nothing from the mail bags that, along with food stuffs and other supplies were being unloaded as he watched. Fitzwilliam worried excessively about how his mother was faring over the news that had been sent about him. It had to be such a blow to her loving heart to have to worry about him. In most cases when a soldier is reported missing it simply meant that he was dead and not found. He had written from Tarragona and again from Valencia but so far no letters had found their way back to him; it had to be twenty or twenty-five days in transport around the Iberian peninsula and up to England.

The business of the port was a welcome distraction and he liked to come and to watch and lose himself in the activity while he waited for his transport home.

He tried not to think too much of Elizabeth Bennet; how to woo her when he returned. It would not be possible to correspond with her, but he was determined to solicit an introduction to her family in some way and crafted many sorts of meetings in his mind as he stood and watched the unloading and loading of ships with goods and men—and a few women—and contemplated his return to England. He should just like to ride to her family's estate, though he only knew she lived in Hertfordshire, and proclaim himself. But he contemplated having his sister, Lady Susanna, invite her to London, or his mother do the same to their family estate; or to somehow ask his cousin Darcy for his friend Bingley's permission to use his estate, it helped to pass his long days while he waited for transport back to England, and home and potential happiness.


	11. Chapter 11

Lucas Lodge, December 1813

There was not an evening without an engagement, with Christmas, New Year and betrothal parties. Should they want a quiet family supper or evening they were denied, and Darcy and Elizabeth did their best to navigate the continual social demands. Practically every family in Meryton hosted some sort of event that season of varying types, from simple suppers with perhaps card tables to a ball, a betrothal ball, at Netherfield Hall.

Lady Lucas had planned for a fine supper and some dancing and her house was decorated for the season with holly boughs and mistletoe tucked in corners; there were many titters and hints from the hostess for the engaged couples to be left to themselves to find the mistletoe though it was equally as attractive to all the maids who congregated around one sprig inside the Lucas Lodge entrance hall to catch late-arriving gentlemen unawares and demand kisses. It was a festive evening and most of the participants were in high spirits.

John Lucas, the eldest son and heir, had been rumored to have a _tendre_ for one of the young women in the village so the number of sprigs of mistletoe in the house was excessive as his mother hoped to catch him in the act and discern whether it was Penelope or her sister, Harriet, that he fancied. There was certainly an expectation that with two local ladies being married—and a double wedding at that—that it must encourage others to follow suit. The neighborhood was on tenterhooks awaiting another betrothal.

The party was large as the Lucases were acquainted with everyone in Meryton and from across all spheres. There were the gentlemen, the yeomen and the tradesmen all mixed together under Sir William and Lady Lucas' roof. Mr. Bennet attended for once rather than sit at home with his books and he stood talking to Mr. Onslow, yeoman farmer—one of those men who owned a piece of land but still worked it himself—and Mr. Philips, the country attorney. Mr. Philips brought along his two clerks, old Mr. Lees and young Mr. Crockford. Both were unmarried men and neither was Mr. Lees so old, perhaps thirty, or Mr. Crockford so young, probably just past twenty that they did not dance. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley were the two most distinguished gentlemen but as both had brides-to-be the young ladies no longer paid them much attention.

Elizabeth and Darcy made a slow review of the large drawing room after supper. Most of the younger guests were in the parlor where sets were forming for country dances. The older ladies ensconced themselves on sofas and chairs to gossip or arranged their shawls on their shoulders before napping after such an excellent meal. The pair wandered away from the noise and conversation. The entrance hall was quite deserted when they peeked out into it; the candles in their holders had burned down far as they had been some of the first to be lit.

Elizabeth's eyes danced with merriment as she walked over to the first step of the stairs. Darcy followed her and took up her hand as though to escort her down. She put her hand on his arm and pointed overhead—a sprig of mistletoe hung over them. He used both hands to pull her near him to kiss her. He ended the kiss, let go and placed his hand on her waist, drawing her close so their bodies just touched and kissed her again with a deeper longing that she returned. He pulled back; this time he clasped her more tightly to him and his kiss was like one they had never shared before.

He looked down at her beautiful, dark eyes. "I want to bed you," he whispered. Her eyes widened in surprise. He dropped one hand from her waist. "I do not wish to to offend you, Elizabeth," he assured her, a hand touched her cheek delicately.

She put a hand out on his chest. "I think it is a good thing for a man and a woman to desire that of each other," her hand reached up to his face and then it dropped and she looked at the small space between them with embarrassment. Their wedding was in two weeks; all the paperwork necessary for it had been signed what was wanting was the ceremony.

"I wish to bed you," he asked again of her as he pulled her close with his one hand around her.

"Such an arrangement?" she whispered to his chest, blushing, catching on the words.

He turned and hooked her arm through his and led the way back toward the drawing room. "I do not suppose Lady Lucas would have an allotted chamber for her guests." Elizabeth could not answer; no witty reply was on her tongue, she could only blush.

"Lizzy, are you well?" cried Jane. Elizabeth looked up with acute embarrassment to see Jane holding a tea cup but staring at her.

"Yes," Elizabeth replied, still blushing.

"You are looking flushed, perhaps Mr. Darcy can find a comfortable seat for you, and a drink?" said Jane looking on with concern at Elizabeth's pink cheeks.

"I fear I am tiring of so many parties," Elizabeth answered truthfully, looking at Jane and wondering if Bingley would ever propose such a venture of Jane. She could not ever consider it of Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth looked up at Darcy and caught his eyes, "I think Jane's suggestion a sound one."

Sitting with the matrons wrapped in their shawls was not wise—they were all known to be sharp of hearing, how else to be good at gossip? The couple found seats near the dancing.

It was just as she was feeling settled that he whispered, "the Netherfield ball is in a day," and then sat up again watching an overly large set of dancers negotiate a rather small space.

"It is our _betrothal_ ball, any absence on our part would be noted," she could not help blushing with her every word.

"True," he mused and they sat still and silent, watching the dancing.

"I do not know of another party at Netherfield until late next week, and by then Georgiana and wedding guests will be arriving," he finally said.

"Perhaps an evening is not the best time?" she ventured then though she could only stare at her hands in her lap as she spoke. She reached out to find one of his.

"Darcy! Come dance!" cried Bingley standing before them with brightened eyes and red cheeks. There was punch to drink that evening, apparently. Elizabeth looked at the floor, startled and embarrassed.

"I do not care to dance this evening," said Mr. Darcy.

"Such a shame! The dancing is capital," smiled his friend. He eyed the seating area. "Perhaps I need a break," and he sat beside them on the long sofa.

"Miss Bennet is talking to some of her friends. Young women cannot have enough to say about their wedding, is that not true Miss Elizabeth?" said Bingley with his usual enthusiasm.

"Many women do," she offered. She looked over at her sister who stood in a circle of friends talking with great animation and no doubt of the wedding. Elizabeth realized that because it was to be a double wedding so many of the details had been handled by Jane and Mrs. Bennet, and Elizabeth had been happy to have the pair fuss about the satin and the guests and the food.

Bingley sat and chatted with them for fifteen minutes while he watched Jane move about the room. He seemed to come to and realized that he had been the one talking and that neither Darcy nor Elizabeth joined in the conversation and only gave simple answers to questions put to them directly. He glanced over at them with their fingers entwined and additional color came to his punch-flushed cheeks; he excused himself saying he would go dance with Jane again.

Lizzy looked down at their hands and Darcy took her hand and tucked it underneath his arm.

"I am fond of walking," she said. They did not look at each other as they talked but continued to look out at the room as if they enjoyed looking at the dancers and the other neighbors and were commenting on them.

"I recall," he said.

"There is not a day that I do not go out for a walk, weather permitting," she said.

"Perhaps we might meet up some morning," he ventured.

"Yes," she whispered looking down again in embarrassment. "But there still is the issue," her voice faltered and then was stronger, "we need a…, for I," and then she looked up and saw that Miss Harriet Harrington was looking at them with interested eyes and Elizabeth, as she had done all evening, her cheeks reddened.

She was discomposed, yet she called out to Miss Harrington, "Harriet, how are you this evening," Miss Harrington bobbed a short curtsey to the betrothed couple on the sofa, "are you enjoying yourself? Have you danced as often as you would wish?"

Harriet pouted. "I have wanted for a partner, now and then," she said with the same sort of look that Elizabeth had often seen on Lydia's face whenever she complained of the lack of gentlemen at a dance but this was not an assembly ball but simply some parlor dancing because there was room and merriment and good company.

"It looks like there is still dancing," cheered Elizabeth "and I see there are still some gentlemen standing about."

Harriet looked to survey the room, old Mr. Lees was standing alone. "No one I would wish to dance with, no one of quality."

Elizabeth found it difficult to compare Harriet to her sister Lydia—though the same age—grown and married almost these six months and if the last letter to Mrs. Bennet was true, she was expecting a child. "I believe that Mr. John Lucas and Mr. Anthony Lucas are talking to Mr. Crockford over there," suggested Elizabeth.

"But John, as you know," said Harriet, "is the admirer of Penelope."

"Perhaps you may dance with Mr. Crockford?" offered Elizabeth.

"He is _only_ a clerk in an office," said Harriet "I do not know that I could ever bring myself to dance with a clerk," and she flounced away.

"Well I believe we know which of the Harrington sisters Mr. Lucas fancies," said Elizabeth.

They sat in silence for a while, and it seemed, finally, that there were to be no more interruptions. A small table next to them held a single candlestick and it cast indifferent light on the couple where the rest of the room shone with sparkling, brilliant light on the dancers.

"Do you plan to go for a walk tomorrow?" asked Darcy breaking the silence.

"I do," she replied.

"Are we," he paused, "are we in agreement that we might walk together tomorrow?"

"Yes," she answered, and her hand squeezed his arm.

"I am not certain that coming to Netherfield would work as Bingley's sisters are to arrive tomorrow," he faltered.

"I did consider a place," she said and looked up at him.

The candle next to them started smoking and she reached over to trim the wick and then told him of her idea. Mr. Onslow was a neighbor on one side of the Longbourn property and was considering selling some land, with a house, that bordered the estate. One of his sons had moved away recently to try his hand at trade in London. Mr. Bennet had the key to the house as her father was considering its purchase but he wanted to inspect both the house and the land and as was Mr. Bennet's way he had been indolent at reviewing it, or perhaps, he had been busy with details for his daughters' joint wedding.

With a great deal of nervousness on both their parts, they agreed to meet in the morning on Mr. Onslow's land.

* * *

They stood for a while making no moves. He held his hand out to her and she placed her hand in his. And then he turned it over and began to remove her glove. When he finished the first, he took her other hand and removed the other glove. His pair lay on the table and he placed hers next to his. He ran his fingers through hers, lightly and around them and cupped his hands over her bare ones and then brought them up to his lips, kissing the tips and the knuckles and then her palm.

His fingers undid the ribbon on her bonnet. And then they were kissing and his hands were exploring the small of her back, trailing down even farther.

"For a maid it is said the first time there might discomfort or even a little pain," he said, his eyes showing concern.

She could not help blushing, "that is why there is to be had a second and a third time," she replied. He kissed her fiercely then and she knew he was kissing her as lover.

They moved near the bed still standing. He removed his jacket and waistcoat before turning to her, took the shawl from her shoulders. Had it been night and they were under the bedclothes he could have hidden his rampant male form from the eyes of a maid but with daylight declaring itself despite the closed curtains and casting sunbeams in through every crack he did not try. Once he unbuttoned his fall he took her hand to touch him, to oblige him, to learn that they should touch each other and be partners in love-making. She was hesitant as though she might hurt him but he did his best to reassure her without words.

He kissed her while she explored and in turn his hands explored her form through her clothes, the top of breasts, her waist, and down her legs until finally he pulled her down onto the bed, his hands pulling at her skirts. He pushed them up, bunching them up at her waist and drawing one of her knees up. By instinct she pulled up the other; he held himself over her on his elbows, kissing her, then mounted her. There was pressure and stretching as he moved. She seemed to hold her breath lost in feeling so many new sensations all at once. There was no pain, a small pleasant sense only and then there was a moment of something, discomfort, and she realized he had farther to move. His form fit inside hers; what had been a small tip was now a long length of him, and what had been before was but a small sensation to this new one and her belly felt afire. She could feel him press against an intimate spot within her that stoked that fire.

His lips fell from hers as his breath came in gasps his hands suddenly grabbing her shoulders and he sobbed in her ear as all his movements stilled, then she felt a warmth blossom against that inner, intimate spot and her eyes flew open and she took in a deep, gasping breath. His eyes looked down with a half-lidded gaze at her, a contented look, and his lips sought hers as his hands and body relaxed. He pulled himself up to look more at her and brushed at the curls around her face. He pushed himself further up, stroking a hand on her thigh which made her chest flutter; he moved that hand to pulling at her skirts again, pulling them high up to her waist and even reaching below them to untangle them while he balanced his weight on his second hand.

"Do not move," he said and shifted his weight off of her; she could feel a tickle on her leg and wanted desperately to move to relieve the sensation but stayed still watching him. He moved from the bed to the small table coming back with a rag and blotted at her in a way that should have made her blush had she not also felt so pleasantly flushed. He pulled her skirts down and helped her to sit at the edge of the bed and then worked at his own buttons before sitting next to her. They clasped hands and she let her head fall on his shoulder.

"I believe that was a good beginning," he said and then took her in his arms to kiss her.

"I believe you are correct," she answered.

They dressed in their outer clothes, locked the door and parted ways; she returned home accounting to Mrs. Bennet for her untidy hair by claiming she had slipped and fallen that morning. Mrs. Bennet scolded her daughter reminding her of her own tale of having once turned an ankle while visiting Rosings and of the importance of the betrothal ball that evening—and on Christmas Eve besides!

* * *

The rest of the day was spent in preparations and the Bennet family arrived in good time at Netherfield Hall. Elizabeth looked over the ballroom there with new eyes. She no longer had a maid's perspective and she looked on the groupings of people with a different light. The young women in their clusters of twos or threes looking with surreptitious glances at the men. The young men, those more interested in dancing or conversing with the ladies all herded together though most often by the refreshment tables as though why waste the effort, if they could not catch a lady to dance with, they could at least eat. The older married couples moved about more, conversing with their neighbors though occasionally stopping to talk between themselves and Elizabeth now wondered if they ever had conversations like the one she and Darcy had the evening previous?

He had been speaking to Sir William Lucas but left off his conversation and came up to her, kissing her upon the cheek as he often did in greeting. To touch him brought back memories of the morning and she wondered how she would get through the evening without blushing continually. He seemed equally as tongued-tied and they walked without speaking, her hand on his arm, around the room nodding to and receiving congratulations from all their Meryton neighbors—they were both far more engaged in society this evening than they had been on previous nights.

"Our attendance is paramount this evening," she said after her Aunt Philips had stopped them and waxed on about their union.

"Our evenings are certainly busy," answered Darcy.

The first set of dances was to be headed by Mr. Bingley and Jane, and Darcy and Elizabeth and to be joined by a few brave souls who could bear to be gossiped about forever more whenever the evening was discussed in the annals of Meryton history. After the dance, the party grew more comfortable, it was Christmas, after all, and though Miss Bingley might object to some of the guests, no one else minded overly much.

Elizabeth found herself, despite its being a _ball_ , not dancing so much as conversing with her friends, and despite its being her betrothal ball, not seeing much of her betrothed. She spent a great deal of time speaking more to the matrons of Meryton than to the maids—all of whom were, of course, wild for dancing.

The previous evening Jane had tackled her about her flushed cheeks and her quiet demeanor, especially as Bingley had mentioned their joint reserved attitude to him as well. Elizabeth assured Jane she was well, it was just difficult to be so much in the center of things that she would wish for a family meal and a quiet evening and Jane agreed with her though she said in the same breath, "though I think I could not bear to be away from my Bingley for a single evening."

Elizabeth nodded and walked to her room though she did not concur with that. There were some moments that even she wanted time away from her betrothed and she wondered what her days would be like after her marriage and how much solitude she would have afterwards. She did not suppose married couples spent their entire days together; her parents certainly did not. Her father was in his library, her mother with her household duties and her visiting. Though she could not, perhaps, use her parents as the most felicitous example of marriage.

She did feel different after the morning. She was Darcy's lady, to be mistress of Pemberley. There was great stock in such a position. She intended to take full advantage of it; she looked at the most distinguished matrons and considered them in turn. Her own mother was, perhaps, the most senior gentlelady in Meryton yet her only concerns in life lay in her daughters—and the getting of husbands for them—and in gossip and not much else. Lady Lucas had come from humbler origins, Sir William had been in trade, but she, like her husband, worked hard to be a force for good in the neighborhood and were charitable at all levels, especially with the poor. Mrs. Goulding's concerns were in socializing, hosting events to show off their increasing wealth. She also had three sons to marry off, so her entertainment, perhaps, had a purpose. Aunt Philips entertained only to gossip.

Elizabeth spied old Mrs. Browne and Miss Browne seated comfortably and with a fair view for the dancing. Old Mrs. Browne was the widow of a long-ago vicar of Meryton and she and her daughter continued to live on the tiniest of pensions in the village. Elizabeth had always valued them. Neither was given to gossip as her mother, and her aunt were want to and kept fair-minded heads about all their neighbors. When Elizabeth was a child, Mrs. Bennet had employed Miss Browne to assist Jane and Elizabeth with their catechism and embroidery—not as a paid positon—such a thing would have been mortifying for both families. No, Miss Browne had helped them with scripture lessons and needlework, the two eldest Bennet daughters being dropped by the small house in Meryton—and probably to get them out of Longbourn—in turn Mrs. Bennet sent extra cuts of meat or choice delicacies or fresh vegetables from her garden to the ladies to supplement their table.

Elizabeth suddenly wondered what would happen to Miss Browne on the passing of her mother for the pension that cared for both of them was settled on old Mrs. Browne only. Miss Browne had no means of support and by now was unlikely to marry being well past her majority, past thirty.

She considered her new position as wife of Mr. Darcy and wondered if her husband would consider endowing Miss Browne with a small annuity if applied to? To be the wife of Mr. Darcy, to be Mrs. Darcy and mistress of Pemberley, a great estate, would certainly be a wonderful position and she had the greatest expectations of happiness as she looked forward to her wedding.


	12. Chapter 12

London, February 1814

Their wedding trip had begun in Cornwall, by the sea, but Mr. Darcy had rejected the accommodations as inadequate for his bride so they had moved inland, east along the southwest coast of England. They took in all the significant points of interest and principal cities: Exeter, Lyme, Weymouth and then up to Salisbury where they delighted in viewing the cathedral. They thought to linger for a few days and then head to Bath for an extended stay.

They had followed the news as it came of the British troops routing the French from Spain and of further news of the Coalition forces fighting on the Continent and forcing Napoleon back over the border into France. There was even happier news from the Earl Dunchurch at their wedding that Colonel Fitzwilliam was alive, that he was well and unharmed; he had been recovered and was to return soon to England. They were sorry he was unable to return in time for their wedding, a factor, no doubt of ship schedules and army needs supplanting the colonel's need to be home.

Both Elizabeth and Darcy received letters that morning and turned at the breakfast table to read them, they were from Jane and the Earl and their expectations were of good news from both senders. From Jane it was, her anticipations of happiness had been met with her marriage and there were hints that she was with child. Elizabeth looked up with joy to share the news with her husband only to see his stony face, a face she had never seen so grave. Darcy's cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, and his wife, Anna-Sophia, hade both died. They were to return for the funeral.

* * *

His one shoulder ached and the other itched which was just enough distraction to keep his mind from the raw pain of losing his childhood companion and brother while he stood in the room. His sensibilities were often up and then down; his experiences of war required both control of and the ability to let go of emotion; both to display it, there was a certain fervor—a high—to the fighting, an exultation, happiness for one's own survival or for that of comrades, and to hide it when it came crashing down on those days when there were heavy losses and his men were among the lists and he must be a commander and do his duty. To return from the Peninsula for two shorts weeks of a reunion with his brother only to lose him hurt Fitzwilliam more than the scars and wounds he sported unseen beneath his clothing.

The bond he had with his fellow officers and men was strong; the connection between fighting men had been described for thousands of years in literature. He knew how much he valued that band of men he had fought with yet the bond of the man he had grown up with; known since he had conscious memory was strong. The man who knew all his secrets, knew all the stories of his scars, pre-war scars, scars from childhood scrapes, those torn trousers, bloodied knees, bruised knuckles, and banged heads, those near-misses, which led to reflections as to how they had escaped childhood with no broken bones when they reached adulthood and looked back. This was the strongest bond he knew. Those childhood adventures, the trouble they shared, Dunchurch's lectures they had endured; that was a bond not meant to be broken.

He felt little that day, despite his height, though he was within an inch of Darcy, and despite the breadth of his chest—his cousin's form was lanky—his chest was broad: he had always looked like a military man. He felt diminished in company that day, small next to the de Bourgh brothers who were only average in height, though there was something about the color of their sunny blond hair that radiated out from them and, he felt, cast him in shadow.

He had been devastated on returning to England to hear the news of Elizabeth Bennet's wedding. He had come home to roost in the house in London, his Mamma and Dunchurch welcoming him warmly, even with great affection, after being gone for ten months and especially after his own experiences.

For a full day they had spoken of nothing but his luck in come home alive. Dumb luck, he thought it, brilliant luck, proclaimed Dunchurch. He and his father had playfully argued in a manner he had never known, realizing how proud his father was of him and how happy Dunchurch was that he was well and _had_ returned. His mother insisted on hearing about his wounds, "for I bandaged all those scraped knees and elbows and heads and saw enough of blood between the three of you." They were proud of him, each in their different way. Dunchurch was proud of his exploits as a solider and a gentleman and to have achieved such a post that he would be near them now and not in a foreign country. The Countess proud that his experiences had not changed him, or hardened him, in essentials he still remained, Edward Fitzwilliam, her son.

The Countess always breakfasted in her room so it was just Fitzwilliam and Dunchurch at table the next morning when they moved on to other family news, the impending birth of Richard's child, updates on Lady Clara's brood and no word that Susanna would ever marry. The topic of Lord Radbourne marrying was not one they discussed, ever.

"Your cousin did marry, did you hear?" called Dunchurch over his plate.

There were many cousins and he was intent on thoughts of traveling to Clairhaven to see Richard and then to Brooke Hall to see Clara and the rascals and considering, still, how to proclaim himself to Miss Bennet. He could not think _which_ cousin Dunchurch meant.

"Darcy has landed himself a pretty little wife. Petite and charming; gentleman's daughter, country lass but quite intelligent. Married this past month or perhaps five or six weeks now," and Dunchurch's voice trailed off as if he tried to count the exact days.

Fitzwilliam's mind caught up to him with his father's information, presented it to him as though a blank canvas and then began to paint in a picture though not a single portrait, a double portrait of his cousin, Darcy, with a bride next to him, of Elizabeth.

"Was her name," Fitzwilliam paused, so reluctant to say her name lest it be true and every hope he had, every hope he had lived for be crushed, every hope he had for his future evaporate, "was the bride's name Elizabeth Bennet?"

"Yes, that is it, or was, she is Mrs. Darcy now," said Dunchurch who had reached for a broadsheet and was reading the news.

Fitzwilliam sat there and felt a black thing take a hold of him, climb through his body which was rigid in his chair, consuming him as it crept within him, cancerous and malignant, invading his legs, cramping his stomach, washing down his arms where they clutched at the table, choking his neck, constricting him so he felt he could not breathe, his sight dimmed as it pushed at his brain. It could not, however, blacken his heart, however much he hurt, however desecrated he was, such a blow to everything he wished might be, his entire future wiped out, that blackness could not take his heart.

* * *

His family and a group of acquaintance, other mourners, were gathered for tea and Fitzwilliam felt continually with tears in his eyes though none of his family seemed so stricken, neither his sisters nor mother dabbed at their eyes with black handkerchiefs held in their hands as they sipped cups of tea and talked quietly with the multitude of guests.

He had not seen his cousin Darcy yet but then he saw her, Elizabeth, standing alone with her teacup. His feet moved with independent purpose towards her.

She was more than he had remembered, her beauty was beyond the descriptions of face and hair, figure or form; there was an aura about her that had always drawn him since their first meeting in Kent. Those dark eyes sought him and looked him fully in the face, were joyful even, to see him; he could sense that and that hurt him—he did not wish to be friends—he wanted to keep his distance from her yet was standing before her.

"You married Darcy," and tears formed at the edges of his eyes.

"Yes," she replied taking in his face, unscarred and looking the same in form though his manner was so different.

"I will offer you congratulations," he said with the minutest of bows.

"I thank you though this is not the time for _that_ ; it is a day for condolences. I am sorry about your brother and sister-in-law and we cut short our trip to be here," she reached out her hand to place it on his arm. "We came to be here in person to support, though I fear there are no words adequate to bring you any relief," her touch was something he both welcomed and almost recoiled from.

"I thank you," he replied with more tears though he only squared his shoulders and shook himself and she removed her hand from his arm. "I will go support my mother, pray excuse me," and he left her unable to bear speaking with her another second. She was still as he remembered; her voice enchanted him; her eyes took him in and pulled at him and added to the thousand worries and pains that day.

He sidled up to his mother, Countess Dunchurch, and stood silently next to her, his tears drying on his cheeks. She turned to observe him.

"Why Edward!" and she dabbed at his tears with her own handkerchief, "it is a difficult day, is it not?"

"Yes," he answered automatically, his mouth set.

"I think I need to sit down, come sit with me," and he offered her his arm and they found a seat together.

"It is exceedingly difficult to lose a child, to have to bury one," she said drawing attention to her grief as a means of drawing him away from his own, "it was no less difficult when we buried your little brother Lawrence though he was only three."

He did not have anything to say to her in reply.

"I have been so blessed these many years, all of my children are exceedingly loving creatures, all five of you are, were," a false smile was on her face as she widened her eyes in an effort to not shed any tears. "Six! Little Lawrence was the same," and it was a true smile that she gave her son then though she blinked as she still attempted to shed no tears.

"That you love is important," and she put her hand on her son's arm, "do not ever stop loving. Loving though, means our grief is almost impossible to bear. I fear your father may not survive this loss." They both looked over at the Earl who stood ashen-faced though surrounded by people consoling him. "Edward, do not let this or the Peninsula change you, do not stop loving. That is not in your nature."

"I fear it has crippled me, Mamma," he answered at last. "Though it is also the loss of my heart which is the tipping point."

"Edward," she said and patted his arm with a touch as only a mother could give. "Do not stop loving; you would be less of a man if you did."

"I feel as if I cannot go on," he gasped taking in a deep breath.

"You must," she said with conviction. "All of you have always followed your hearts, only marry for love."

"I would disagree, Mamma, we have a poor performance in such matters, look at your two children: Radbourne and Susanna, neither has married."

"It is because they have not found the right partner—though I believe there is also that tension between the eldest son and the father with Everard and he will insist on not falling in love until your father is gone from us. But look at how happy Richard and Anna-Sophia were, how happy Clara and Ladbroke are. Only marry for love, Edward."

"It is too late to be giving me this advice, Mamma," he clenched his teeth together looking across the room though he did not spy her.

"Why?"

"Because the lady who has my heart is wed to another."

"Do not harden your heart as your response, like pharaoh. Think of his end," she said.

"There is no hope for me," he replied.

"I am not asking you to hope or not to hope. I am asking you to love, Edward. To hope means there is no certainty for the thing you want which can lead to anxiety and fear and distrust. How could I ever advise you to hope? But to hope also bring great possibilities, possibilities of happiness but you have to take risks and what mother would suggest that? Now, kiss me and know that your Mamma loves you and go and see how your father fares."

He did as she asked.


	13. Chapter 13

Elizabeth spoke with Lady Susanna and Lady Clara. She gave her condolences to the Earl and the Countess. There were a number of other Fitzwilliam relations she did not know but she offered her ear to whoever needed consoling before supper.

She was feeling melancholy. It was not a sensibility she was normally inclined to and she supposed given the day and the events, it was natural. She had looked forward to being reacquainted with Colonel Fitzwilliam, especially now that he was family after their being such good acquaintances at Rosings and then hearing, over the months, about his campaign on the Peninsula, of his injuries and recovery and the chance return home. It was so unfair that he had only a few weeks with his family—his brother—according to Lady Susanna before Anna-Sophia had died giving birth to a stillborn daughter and the brother had died in a tragic accident after burying her. This was the second funeral in just over a week for the Earl of Dunchurch and his family.

There were so few people Elizabeth knew. For Mr. Darcy this was family, now hers, but family as beloved to him as the Gardiners and their children, her little cousins were to her; he moved with a comradery that was pleasing for her to see. There were near cousins, other Fitzwilliamses and some more distant and of which she had not considered, a set of de Bourgh brothers. They were handsome and fair though she thought they, like their uncle Sir Walter de Bourgh, Lady Catherine de Bourgh's late husband—whose portrait hung in prominence in the drawing room at Rosings—would be thinning on top by their thirties. Apparently the de Bourghs, the Fitzwilliams, the Darcys and another set of cousins, the Selbournes were all a close-knit clan.

There were far more gentlemen cousins since few ladies attended funerals so it seemed such a crush of gentlemen in the Earl's London drawing room while the body lay in state downstairs being watched over by a team of mourners. There was a formal supper—the seating arrangement the only thing that did not conform to precedence because of the disparity of the sexes—and then the house prepared for the funeral procession.

Elizabeth had heard about nighttime services and burials, especially among more well-to-do families but all the funerals she had ever known in Meryton had been during the day. At ten o'clock at night a large funeral procession set out from Fitzwilliam House towards the church. Mutes and pages led the way before the carriage carrying the body of the second son of the Earl of Dunchurch; feathers bedecked the tracery of the matched black horses that pulled the wagon with the black velvet-covered coffin resting on it. The black-caped gentlemen cousins, the Fitzwilliams, the de Bourghs, and the Selbournes all followed walking behind, and behind that were the hired mourners in their black gloves, some with black crape on their hats, but not all.

Mr. Darcy did not walk behind the coffin in the funeral procession. He was to deliver his aunt, Countess Dunchurch, Lady Susanna and Elizabeth to the church to attend the services. And suddenly the tenor of the gathering in the drawing room changed. It was mostly women. Lady Catherine was there with Miss de Bourgh, Lady Clara and a number of the Selbourne wives. Mr. Philip de Bourgh, the younger brother, was to take Lady Catherine, Anne and Lady Clara to the church and Elizabeth spoke principally to him and to Lady Susanna whose friendship, despite a difference of over five years in age, she was beginning to appreciate. Lady Catherine was cool and indifferent towards her and had not forgiven Elizabeth for marrying her beloved nephew but the lady managed to hold onto her manners in an Earl's drawing room. Anne, remarkably, was quite polite.

Feelings of melancholy returned again during the service—at midnight: such an interesting hour to attend church. Rather than a message of redemption earned, a promised land achieved, the vicar's sermon had dark messages about death and dire warnings for the living about good choices and warnings of straying from the straight and narrow path. Should the well-mannered ladies and gentlemen in the congregation be attempting to control their tears for propriety's sake in the church the vicar was not aiding them in anyway. The only relief was in singing, one could sing with emotion in church without any fear of condemnation. The service ended. It was whispers in the black-draped church as they filed out into the night. Carriages and crowds surrounded the church still despite the black night and Mr. Darcy navigated the multitude of mostly hired mourners to escort Elizabeth to their carriage and usher her inside. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"My cousin, Lady Susanna, is speaking with her mother. I will return for her in a minute. The Countess, I believe, will stay for the graveside."

"But women are not allowed at internments," said Elizabeth.

"She will sit in the Dunchurch carriage. She did so for Mrs. Fitzwilliam last week." He paused and looked out the window at black nothingness. "He took his life."

"Darcy," she whispered.

"This was not an accident," he turned back to look at her, "not an incident of some grief-stricken husband, some drunken escapade and a fall as so many consider," his eyes were sad, his mouth long and her chest tightened which she worked hard to control as he spoke. "He used a razor to slit his own throat," he whispered.

She reached across to lay a hand on his knee. She felt hollow inside and could only imagine how Darcy felt though his face was blank; she could not ask any questions but only looked at him.

"I am thankful he expired within an hour, that it was not a lingering death," he finished in a faint voice.

"Yes," she nodded.

He turned to look out at the blackness for many minutes; they could now hear voices, signs of activity outside.

"I should go fetch Lady Susanna," he said looking back over at her.

"Of course," she nodded and removed her hand. He exited the carriage the noise of voices and of carriage wheels, horse trappings suddenly a loud intrusion through the open door which was then muffled when he closed it. She was still, sitting upright where she was on the edge of her seat and thinking of an all-consuming grief one could not recover from. She hoped she would never have to experience such a thing. One never wishes for or chooses to experience grief but to lose your wife and daughter in the same moment, or a husband and son, such a burden would be overwhelming, stretch her capacities. If she had a son—she placed a hand on her belly—and yet lose him and Darcy at the same moment how _would_ she bear it?

The door was wrenched open and a hatless man appeared in the opening, his hands covered in black gloves. He spooked at seeing her, his hand on the side of the opening, swaying a little. She supposed he must be one of the paid mourners; she also supposed he had been drinking.

"Please leave," she said with her best imitation of the Countess. She wondered where the coachman and groom were.

"I like t'em pearls, hand t'em over," he snarled and he took a step up into the carriage.

She could now hear shouting, harsh words outside and sounds of fighting.

"Mr. Stanley!" shouted Elizabeth who scooted to the far end of the carriage, "Darcy!"

The man pulled himself in. "Pearls, and w'at else you got?" he demanded.

"Darcy," she cried, "Fitzwilliam!" she screamed.

He lunged at her and tried to pull the pearls from her neck—a wedding gift to her from Mr. Darcy—but they did not come free as easily as he imagined. She pushed and clawed at him as he tried again to wrench the necklace from her throat.

"Fitzwilliam!" she cried out.

The carriage dipped towards the door though she could not see around her attacker, only some small part of her mind hoped it was not another rogue.

The man suddenly hovered before her, away from her; she looked beyond him and almost did not recognize the face of Colonel Fitzwilliam with its transport of rage so marked on it. He had a hand on the man's back, another at his cravat, a hold that slowly choked the air from the thief who flailed and then went limp. The Colonel dropped him, half on the seat across, half on the floor before he sat down next to Elizabeth with a gentle movement so in contrast with his recent action.

She stared at the form in front of her unable to move or speak. Fitzwilliam looked down at her; her face was ashen and he could see only her eyes as she looked at him. Her hands touched the pearls and then her throat, it did not seem possible for them to widen but her dark eyes enlarged under the carriage lamps.

"I heard the fighting, was going to check on my mother when I heard you calling for me," he said.

"I was calling for Darcy," she whispered, her voice dark and hoarse. He felt deflated, sickened suddenly. His cousin's Christian name was Fitzwilliam: Fitzwilliam Darcy; she had been calling for Darcy, her husband, not him.

"Where is the coachman? The groom?" she asked.

"They tried to break up the fighting and left the carriage but for an instant, I am sure of it. Many of the mourners are drunk," he growled, "quite drunk," his anger spilling out of him at the chaos of the rowdy and drunk hired mourners at his beloved brother's funeral.

Tears came then, her frozen demeanor softened as her body slumped and he checked himself again to have lashed out in his anger and caused her further hurt and despair. He was to always do the wrong thing with Elizabeth. He put a tentative hand on her elbow, searched with his other hand and failed to find a handkerchief to offer her. She sobbed with a gasp as though trying to control herself and failing that burst into a flood of tears. He threw propriety to the wind and put his hand around her waist and she leaned against him, sobbing.

"Let me fetch Darcy to you," he said pulling his hand free. Her hand shot out to clasp his arm.

"No, do not leave me alone," she cried blinking through her tears, quite terrified. "Take me with you."

"I do not like to think of exposing you to the scene outside."

"Do not leave me," she repeated, terror overcoming her tears.

He looked over at the crumpled form and bent over it, grabbing what parts he could maneuver with and dragged it to the door where he shoved it through before pulling the door closed, shutting out some of the noise.

They heard a sound on the carriage roof.

"Coachman!" demanded Fitzwilliam.

"Sir!" came a voice.

"Here!" commanded the Colonel. The carriage swayed a little, the door opened and Mr. Stanley appeared.

"Fetch Mr. Darcy at once."

"Yes sir," though he paused and looked at Mrs. Darcy briefly. "Garvin has been injured," he looked back at the Colonel.

"How bad?" asked Fitzwilliam.

"Knife to the shoulder," said the coachman.

"Bring him inside," Elizabeth spoke for the first time, the call to action seemed to rouse her from her own troubles. "Mr. Stanley, bring Garvin inside before you fetch Mr. Darcy," she repeated.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied, shutting the door. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at Elizabeth who took stock of herself, straightened her sleeves, her bonnet and touched her throat again.

A thump heralded the coachman's return and Fitzwilliam opened the door and between the two of them they maneuvered the groom onto the seat opposite. He was young, probably fourteen or fifteen. His form did not fit entirely on the seat so they bent his legs up; he was unconscious. Mr. Stanley stepped back to loom in the doorway while the military man examined the boy: a gash through his livery was wet with blood on the arm that faced them. Fitzwilliam's hands probed the lad's head and found more disturbing news: a lump at the back of his head. Colonel Fitzwilliam reported his findings to the coachman then he bade him hurry to find his master.

"He is a handsome creature," she said, sweeping his overly long forelock from the groom's brow. "Shall he recover?"

"His arm will heal, we shall have to wait to see how long it takes for him to wake to see about the head," said Fitzwilliam watching her moments. 'I would have loved such a nurse,' he could not help thinking, 'with such a touch when I was in Spain.'

Voices grew outside and then Darcy was at the door and Elizabeth's heart quickened at his presence. He looked from her to the groom to his cousin.

"He will live," assured the Colonel, "we do not know in what condition but now that you are here I wish to ensure my mother and sisters are well."

"The Countess is well as are Lady Susanna and Lady Clara. I had Lady Susanna on my arm when we understood what was occurring and she implored me to seek out your mother. We retrieved her from her carriage and escorted her to sanctuary in the church."

"I thank you," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, bowing, "but I shall go to my Mamma and leave you to care for your lady wife and your servant," and he left.

* * *

A/N: Posting this update (Feb 1814) a day early as I will be overly busy this weekend, so enjoy. New update on Monday.


	14. Chapter 14

Rosings, Easter, 1814

Darcy had written to him to beg off the annual visit. They had seen Lady Catherine and Anne at Richard's funeral and he wished to return with his bride to Pemberley to settle into their life together —Fitzwilliam almost thought prize when he was feeling in a really sour mood and perhaps had a little too much to drink. Fitzwilliam assured his cousin that was acceptable; he did not wish, in reality, any close contact. To hear Darcy tell him how Elizabeth had been wooed despite rejecting him once before would be unbearable.

* * *

Darcy had come to him, so angry and so frustrated that evening, a year previously. That morning she had hurt her ankle and Fitzwilliam had helped her to the Parsonage. It had required a hand around her waist her shifting form under his arms had taunted him, teased him, and he felt it unfair that Darcy had professed his love for Elizabeth before Fitzwilliam had, that Darcy could not appreciate her nuances, her complexities as well as Fitzwilliam did. Fitzwilliam thought of all their discussions together; never had he found a lady with whom he loved conversing so much. She had such a mind, they thought along similar lines yet were able to disagree in such spirit.

He had told Darcy to be straight-forward with his proposal and not discuss his hesitations but his cousin had veered from the topic at-hand to do just that and she had rejected him. Fitzwilliam was not sure if he should feel _happy_ at his cousin's disappointment but it meant he had a chance and it was that which kept him going on the Peninsula. His duty tore him away from her and he had to sail—he could hardly had proposed that next morning—but _she_ had kept him going in Spain. After Vittoria and Ordal.

They had sat there, the two cousins, late into the night, drinks in hand. Darcy had been most wounded by her aspersion that neither of the cousins had acted as a gentleman her accusation—Darcy had been truly offended by it—that they had somehow cut cards for her. They had settled it between them to write letters and contrive, though it was so against propriety, to get them to her before they left. Fitzwilliam was amazed at the length of his cousin's letter, how much Darcy felt he had to explain himself when Fitzwilliam felt his actions always explained to the world who he was.

Perhaps that was his issue, he had not explained himself enough.

* * *

Anne was not well, the trip the previous month to London had taken a toll on her and she was experiencing a natural down-turn of her illness; she was pale and listless and Mrs. Jenkinson fussed over her. Lady Catherine, as was her want, or the way she dealt with her daughter's affliction, would scold Anne to keep her manners and insist that she attend suppers and not claim illness. Fitzwilliam was thankful that Anne had such a devoted companion as Mrs. Jenkinson as much as she was kind of a nobody. Mrs. Jenkinson had no conversation, nothing to add to the long evenings at Rosings but she cared for Anne more than Anne's mother cared for her, and he was heartily thankful that there _was_ someone who cared for Anne, who did see to Anne's health and well-being.

The Collinses were invited over and there would have been cards to play if anyone thought to suggest it though Anne did not have the energy and would often simply sit by the fire. In years past, she had a book or embroidery but this entire trip she sat passive and unfocused and he thought this would be the end of her. And he wished there could be some way to send her to a sunny and helpful place but his aunt would never agree. Anne would someday succumb to her illness and die and be buried at Rosings. Would only he and Mrs. Jenkinson mourn her?


	15. Chapter 15

Pemberley, May 1814

Elizabeth had settled into her role as mistress of Pemberley. She had visited all the tenants, reached out to all for whom she would have influence as the new mistress. Her visiting had then been enlarged to include the village of Lambton where she became familiar with all the principal families there. She was pleased with her new neighbors. The Reverend Worth and his wife, in particular, were a benevolent couple. Mrs. Worth was a young woman, plain and sensible—quite like Charlotte Collins—not much older than Elizabeth; they had one little child, a girl. Elizabeth felt Mrs. Worth would become a good friend.

Mrs. Gardiner's friends, with whom Elizabeth had become acquainted the previous summer, remained, and they and a number of genteel families lived in the village and surrounding area and were anxious to meet the new mistress of Pemberley. When Mrs. Gardiner's father had passed away his lands had been sold to that very acquaintance, Mr. Alport to enlarge his property. He and his wife had five grown children and their friendship helped Elizabeth when she felt on some days overwhelmed by her role of visiting and receiving and being examined and, in some ways, being on display as Mr. Darcy's bride.

A large number of the Lambton families had sons. The Alport's oldest was perhaps Darcy's contemporary and Elizabeth wondered if they had played at sport together as youth; the middle son had a commission; the youngest was still in school. She could not help considering all the gentlemen, the young gentlemen, in the neighborhood for Georgiana as potential suitors. It helped to pass the time of day when conversation grew dull over cups of tea. The Longlanes had two sons, past twenty and set to be gentlemen. The younger, Mr. Edmund was quite handsome but it was his brother who would inherit Charfield Estate. There were the Fishers and the Wards who both had one son each but did not socialize overly much so Elizabeth did not meet them. The Stanhopes socialized a great deal but had never been blessed with children. Theirs was, perhaps, the largest estate in the area, next to Pemberley, but no one knew who was the inheritor. No rumors ever circulated about an entailment or an estranged nephew.

She was well received, and though compared with her predecessor, most reckoned her prettier than Lady Anne—though not as elegant—and her spirited friendliness was welcome in any household she visited. The subject of an heir was never long from anyone's lips and Elizabeth was sometimes shocked at the blatant references to the next master of Pemberley as though his entrance into this world was only a matter of weeks and an assured thing. She had to allow their neighbors and tenants to be proud of their master and wish him a son and so held her tongue when she might have wished to say something otherwise or not have such a topic be of open discussion.

After Mr. Richard Fitzwilliam's funeral, Mr. Darcy had stopped coming to her bed, and Elizabeth had been saddened by this turning in their marriage. She had accounted for it by the fact that he was somehow disgusted by her having been attacked and manhandled by the thief those few minutes in the carriage. His manner did not seem to have changed towards her in any other way and he was kind and generous, still kissing her in quiet moments if they happened to be alone.

A few weeks passed before she braved the dressing room door late one night to ask him, in acute embarrassment, why he no longer visited her at night.

"For I thought we had such a good beginning," she ended.

He looked at her, quite startled, both by her visit—he had only visited her room—and her words.

"I feared your experience had shaken you; that to be touched might be difficult for you," he explained, himself in some embarrassment.

"I assure you, dear Darcy, that your arms are the assurance I need," she replied with a steady voice. And so they once again worked at the begetting of an heir.

* * *

Kitty came for a long summer visit bringing news. Lydia was delivered of a son, named for his father and Mrs. Bennet wrote of her assured delight that he was just as handsome as his father though her fear of travel kept her to her house and she did not see her grandson's beauty for herself.

Jane wrote of her complete happiness with her expectation of a child in the fall—and of Mr. Bingley's assurances that it would be a boy and that he, unlike his father, would sire many sons. Elizabeth also had letters from her mother expressing her greatest delight about Jane's forthcoming event and asked for news from Lizzy about her own expectations.

Mrs. Collins was delivered of a child, a daughter, and though the labor was long, over a day, the child was fat and healthy and four sheets of paper conveyed Charlotte's delight in her domestic happiness over her daughter, Laura, and of her own wishes for Eliza to repeat the same. It seemed Elizabeth was to be left behind in this regard.

There was local, Meryton, news to report as well. John Lucas had wed Harriet Harrington but not until first offering for and being rejected by the sister Penelope. This had not left much goodwill between the sisters. According to local gossip, Penelope had set her cap at Martin Goulding who was the middle Goulding son of the family but depending on who was asked there was no match between them.

Either there was a lack of affection or a want of money; or it was due to the fact that Mrs. Goulding felt that they had, the whole family, come up in the world and that a young lady of genteel birth but only of 700 pounds dowry was not a good match for her son. So Penelope was unmarried, bitter at her younger sister having wed, and Mr. Martin Goulding accepted a commission in the army. With Napoleon vanquished and the Americas subdued there was no fear of his actually having to fight.

* * *

Once she had visited and revisited all the Pemberley tenants and neighbors in Lambton, Elizabeth expanded her visits to the village of Kympton which was still within Mr. Darcy's sphere of influence. It lay about eight miles away and was a little smaller than Lambton, with the same mix of families, some genteel, some merchants with its own vicar, Mr. Hunt. Mr. Hunt was, perhaps just past thirty and a serious cleric whose sermons scolded rather than relieved. His wife was in contrast to him, she was a year or two younger and quite beautiful: blond with curls and a smile that warmed and invited. They had two beautiful little tow-headed boys; the oldest was just of an age to go away to school.

At Kympton the families were far younger than those in Lambton, not any, besides the Bells, to have young men to tempt Georgiana. The Bell brothers were also reckoned handsome but as they lived in town most of the year, Elizabeth did not get a chance to meet them and discover their beauty for herself or to see if they might suit Georgiana.

* * *

Elizabeth was walking by the small parlor when she happened to hear an interesting question.

"Did you ever wish for Mr. Darcy to have married Miss Bingley?" The most surprising part of this question was that it was posed by her own sister.

"Not particularly," answered Georgiana. "Miss Bingley, perhaps, has some interesting friends and acquaintances, but I never put much store in Miss Bingley's obvious admiration for Fitzwilliam; she is too tall. He does not admire tall women and I also believe he was put off by her red hair."

"So she never had any sort of chance with Mr. Darcy?" asked Kitty.

"No," said Georgiana. "Elizabeth is so pretty and petite; he was telling me so much about her months before I first met her." Elizabeth waited for Georgiana to remark on other reasons that Darcy had mentioned to his sister for admiring her, but there was nothing else forthcoming.

"Do you suppose Mr. Longlane and Mr. Edmund Longlane admire tall women?" asked Kitty. Both she and Georgiana were on the taller side, and of similar heights and forms. And the talk turned to the gentlemen to attend the Pemberley summer ball and they spoke no more of Elizabeth and Darcy.

* * *

The ball at Pemberley was such as had not been seen since before Georgiana was born. It would be talked of, and remarked upon for the remainder of the summer. Everyone within twenty miles was invited.

Georgiana was shy and a little self-consumed but with Kitty by her side was cajoled out of shyness and into spirits that almost matched Kitty's own. Kitty had never been to a dance or ball where there was more gentlemen than ladies but in this instance it was true and she could almost be seen to float as she looked over the ballroom at Pemberley at the expectation that she would dance every dance and see the dawn break with weary feet but a happy heart.

Elizabeth was delighted, herself; to dance though Darcy seemed to be less inclined to take to the floor as if he were an old married man now. But she hinted to him and he engaged her for a pair of dances. He was silent for a while but then looked at her with a fondness she had come to know though his face showed little emotion.

"It is a fine turnout," he said.

"I believe we may say a noble turnout, for only the Fishers and the Wards have not come."

"You have done an excellent job, Elizabeth," said her husband.

"Georgiana and Kitty—and Mrs. Reynolds—were of tremendous help."

They danced a few more steps. "You have made Pemberley a gem again, a jewel in Derbyshire's crown. I am very pleased that you are my wife." She feared he would kiss her there, in the middle of the ballroom, so strong was the expression of his words but they continued with their steps, a smile now on his face and many watched the master and mistress of Pemberley and looked at the handsome couple with a great deal of pride.


	16. Chapter 16

London, September 1814

Fitzwilliam House in London had become a bachelor house. Colonel Edward Fitzwilliam was now living there with his oldest brother, Everard, Lord Radbourne. It had surprised many that they would choose to live together and that Edward Fitzwilliam would not establish his own residence, but though unspoken, it was due to the loss of their middle brother, Richard. They both had felt close to their brother, now gone from them, and yet not close to each other—put it down to the years apart in age, four, or the fact that the first and the third sons are often so different, often treated so differently in a family, have different expectations put upon their shoulders. But Everard and Edward Fitzwilliam quietly and amicably shared a house and gently, and again in an unspoken way, were seeking the same thing: wives.

September was less busy than the spring in terms of fetes or balls or social events, but the two brothers received enough invitations to keep their calendars full. Rank had its privileges, though his experiences on the Peninsula certainly carried a significant amount of weight. Napoleon's abdication in April had been a relief in all the drawing rooms in London and across the country. A officer who had spent so many years on the Peninsula was a welcome addition to any hostess' drawing room, almost as much as a catch as the oldest son of an Earl.

Fitzwilliam would dance and socialize for half an evening, moving about the room in his usual manner with easy grace, despite his size, speaking to the newest young women who had been presented or to those who had been out and available for a number of years with a charming ease that made him popular even if his plain face did not ever win hearts immediately. For a running number of days it would be petite, plump blondes—and he thought of Miss Lucas—and another week it would be willowy brunettes with which he would dance and flirt and lead about the rooms of the various houses to which he had been invited. He could not, ever, converse with petite, dark-eyed women—they brought a constriction to his throat as though his cravat was too tight. The young ladies were all very much a like and no one single lady stood out more than the other; the experienced ladies, out for a number of years, had more poise and conversation, perhaps tittered less, but he found no intellect or wit to capture his attention.

At the end of the month a young woman, tall and with burnished red-gold hair returned from a long summer visit to some friends. She spoke well, danced magnificently—had a decent fortune—and captured Colonel Fitzwilliam's attentions for almost a fortnight; he was not the only gentleman whose eyes followed her around the dance floor or watched her at the punch bowl.

He was considering his amber-haired lady one evening, a rare evening when neither he nor Lord Radbourne had an engagement and they were sitting together and discussing their future. Lord Radbourne admitted he had yet to have his eye, let alone his heart, be turned by any young woman.

"Mamma seems to have infinite patience with me but I fear Dunchurch is cross; I had a letter from him last week saying it was time I did my duty and married," said Radbourne.

"Losing Richard has affected us all; had he lived, or the child lived, and been a boy," said Fitzwilliam and then his voice trailed off. "At least," he went on, "there are the rascals," and he walked to retrieve the bottle of Port and move it nearer to them.

"I am not sure Dunchurch would wish the title to go to his daughter's progeny; he would prefer you or I take up that burden," said Lord Radbourne.

"I thought," and then he stopped and looked away at nothing, the room fading as he conjured up an image of Elizabeth.

His brother watched his reverie. "There is a lady?"

"There was a lady and there is a lady," replied Fitzwilliam. Radbourne raised his eyebrow in surprise but only pressed his lips together and then held out his glass for more Port; it might, perhaps, be a long story. He threw his feet in front of him and leaned back comfortably in his chair.

"I have bad luck," said Fitzwilliam and swiped his arm down across his chest tracing the path of his saber scar, thumping his leg with the back of his hand at the point where it ended. If he cared to, he could run his fingers back and forth over the fabric on his leg and feel the scar tissue beneath. "These damned wounds, it was two months to heal and then at Ordal I just reopened them and got a cracked head in the bargain and caused the family no end of worries. I am sure Mamma has never worried so much about any of you, none of you has given her such continual pain."

"Yet you survived, Ned, and you came back to us," Radbourne did not often call him by his shortened name as his Mamma and sisters did. "What does your luck have to do with the ladies? You have an ugly mug I cannot imagine you have ever been lucky with the ladies." The brothers were similar in appearance so it was a mocking comment, meant to tease him a little. Richard had been the handsome one of the three of them.

"I was visiting Aunt Catherine and Anne, and I met a gentleman's daughter: she was beautiful and witty and intelligent," his voice trailed off, the emotion in it quite evident.

"Was? What happened to her?"

"She was wooed by another man and, damn it all, I helped in the wooing."

"What?" Radbourne sat up from his formerly comfortable position in his chair.

"Cousin Darcy, our richer, taller, far more handsome cousin was tongue-tied, but he had met her some months before, lost his heart to her and asked for my help in wooing her, so I did, gentleman's code."

His brother seemed at a loss as to what to say or even what to think and sat stiffly on the edge of his chair. Radbourne's eyes were said. "I am sorry," he said at last and with what love he could convey in that phrase. He relaxed back into his chair. "But there is a lady, now?"

"Yes," answered his brother. "I have been pacing the various rooms of London society seeking a worthy substitute and these past weeks I have found a lady who can hold a decent conversation, is pretty enough to look at and sources say, has an acceptable fortune."

"So you are contemplating marriage?" asked Radbourne.

"Possibly," said Fitzwilliam.

"What is her name?" asked his brother. "Who are her parents?"

"Her name is, her name is…," and then he swore loud and long while he ran fingers through his hair. He brought both fists down angrily on the chair arms, splitting open a knuckle on the wooden edge. He looked at Radbourne. "I cannot recall. If I see her tomorrow it would come to me; if I see her parents I might recall their names but when I try to find her name all I can do is conjure up an image of Elizabeth." He swore again, pounding his fists against the chair arms. "I will never get over her, never!"

"What are you going to do?" asked Radbourne.

"I cannot stay here and pretend," he held his fist up and watched blood trickle down his hand. "I will go see Clara and Ladbroke; they are a half day's ride away. A trip to the country." His eyes continued to watch the slow tracework of blood down his hand. "I had been considering giving up my commission perhaps I should stay in the army. But even things in the Americas seem to be resolved now," he looked over at his brother who gave him a wan smile. "No one wants me."

* * *

He was shown into a drawing room awash with light from the afternoon sun pouring in on his sleeping sister. Fitzwilliam supposed she must have fallen asleep and not moved rooms for west-facing ones were not often used in the late afternoon because of the setting sun. If he had not been family he would have been turned away at the door, he supposed, as he walked lightly towards his sister's sleeping form. She had her hand up under her chin and he recalled fondly that she slept in the exact same attitude as a child when they were all in the nursery together. Clara and Richard had been his principle playmates in the nursery and he, remembered Elizabeth Bennet and their conversation—was he to never be able to forget her?—that one looked with fondness or concern about one's childhood.

"Fondness," he whispered as he looked as his sleeping sister. Her other hand rested on a bump on her belly and his mixed feelings, half of sorrow at recalling Elizabeth, half of joy at recalling such a sweet childhood memory were chased away with a burst of happiness inside at the idea of another nephew in the fortification that was called The Nursery upstairs. He thought he would just sit and watch her sleep but it seemed she sensed his presence and woke suddenly staring right across at him.

"I slept through your arrival," she said, the hand under her chin moving to push herself up.

"I enjoyed watching you sleep," he replied.

"Tea?" she asked.

"Yes, please." And he waved her to stay where she was and pulled the chord himself. They discussed his short journey until the tea arrived and then she did rouse herself properly to pour, waving him away.

"This is my house; I will pour," she said, doing the honors and handing him his cup. He thanked her and sipped his tea.

"You are with child again," he smiled over his tea cup. She looked up quickly then, surprised. "You did not want another rascal? Perhaps you may get a girl this time," he soothed. She still looked shaken at his words but he could not fathom why.

"Yes," she said at last, with a tentative touch to her belly, "sometime after the New Year."

"You sound disheartened," he said. "Is that why you have not said anything to Radbourne or me? Does Mamma know?"

"Yes, Mamma knows. She knew about the other one too. I have been waiting to be sure I could carry this one before I told you and Everard, even Susanna." He understood instantly and said nothing.

"I was with child when Richard died. I lost that babe," she said simply.

There had been so much loss then, he thought, Richard, Anna-Sophia, their infant daughter and now another life lost.

"How do you bear it?" he whispered, unsure how he could take such a blow. He had come here as a retreat and felt like he found a battle instead.

"I have four babies upstairs even if I am exhausted all the time. Why do you not go take tea with them? They will be excited to see their favorite uncle."

He protested leaving her but she insisted he go to the nursery. The nanny could ring for more tea, if needed, she said but the rascals would be ecstatic to see their uncle.

He walked slowly and thoughtfully up another flight of stairs to the lair of the nursery and as he reached the floor, he thought he could hear the shouts of young voices down the hallway despite the closed doors of the nursery and his spirits lifted as the tiny voices reached him. Their nanny was not a doddering old woman but a quite capable one who apparently understood that boys' spirts ran high sometimes and they needed to release their energy.

He knocked on the nursery door and the sounds within became muffled; he then turned the knob and walked in and found his two oldest nephews with bright cheeks but sitting at their tea table, the third youngest was nowhere to be found and the infant seemed to be running in exuberant circles in an open space making odd noises and laughing with that infectious joy that only children have. Nanny was sitting at her own tea table at the end of the room with an indulgent smile on her face.

"Uncle Ned!" shouted the two at the tea table and instantly sprang upon him with more energy and force than he recalled. They had grown since he had last seen them.

"Ned!" shouted the infant who ran to join the throng and clasped his knee tightly.

"But where is Jamie?" cried Fitzwilliam taking a few steps into the room all the while his three nephews clung to him.

"He ran and hid when you knocked; he'll come out," said John, the oldest and most often the spokesman for the group.

"Nanny said we could play at army after our tea!" cried Ned, his namesake, though he had his father's fair coloring, "you are just in time to help us capture that rotter Bon'part!"

"Art!" cried a voice from his knee. Little Richard had a sure grip around the top of his boot.

"It sounded to me as though you had begun before your tea was finished." He looked down at their table and noticed plates of food barely touched though the teacups were empty. "Perhaps I will join you," and he looked into the teapot and frowned.

Nanny came over to look at their plates and cups and joined with their uncle in frowning at them. "You drank all the tea and have left nothing for the Colonel," she scolded.

"How were we to know he would come?" argued little Ned with the skill of a logician.

But they sat down to eat their meal while they waited for another teapot to be brought and, perhaps, something delicious to be sent as well since Uncle Ned had come to tea.

"It might only be toast," said John.

"But they might send cakes," argued young Ned who was, by far, more hopeful.

Their uncle borrowed an extra chair from Nanny's grown-up sized table and sat down, pulling his youngest nephew to his knee.

"I do not want to eat," said a high-pitched voice. Jamie had the darker Fitzwilliam coloring like his mother; he stood peering over the top of a trunk where he had been hiding, crouched behind.

"Not even if I share my toast if cook sends some?" asked Fitzwilliam. The boy shook his head. "What if she sends cake?" Jamie's eyes grew wide as he contemplated such a treat but he still stood his ground.

The two oldest at the table finished their meal quickly and began arguing as to which was to be British and which was to be French in their mock fighting. There was no resolution. Fitzwilliam had to admire his namesake for holding his ground against his older brother; he would have given in against Everard or Richard in such a nursery argument. Dickie squirmed off his lap and went to stand with his two oldest brothers, ready to join in though not even sure of the game.

Uncle Edward's tea was delivered and he peered mischievously at it for a second but decided against making a game of guessing and revealed stacks of buttered toast. There was, however, a pot of strawberry jam. That did get Jamie's attention who came out finally from behind his trunk. The cook, somehow knowing that Fitzwilliam was visiting though he had not been in the house for more than hour, had sent far more toast than _he_ could possibly eat knowing he would share with his nephews.

The toast was lathered with jam and shared amongst them and when the jam ran out the two oldest went back to their game with renewed vigor, agreeing to be on the same side and the large trunk to be the French forces and it was attacked with fervor and energy. Dickie returned to running in circles and squealing but Jamie came to stand by his uncle who sat with his tea cup and watched all the antics of the rascals and nibbled on buttered toast.

A small hand patted his knee and he looked down at his third nephew who was four, if he recalled. The two oldest were only a year apart and close friends. The baby was not yet two. He must feel a little lonely at times, thought Fitzwilliam, even with three brothers, and raised an eyebrow which seemed enough of an invitation that Jamie crawled up onto his lap and settled there in contentment, happy to eat another piece of toast, crumbs falling everywhere, and watch his brothers at play.

"Did you really fight?" asked the small high-pitched voice looking up at him suddenly.

"Yes," he answered.

"Against Boney?" asked Jamie.

"No, but I fought the French," and his arm cradled the small figure a little more.

"Were you hurt?" It was a childish question but sincere and he stiffened a little not quite knowing how to respond.

"Yes, I have been hurt," he answered truthfully. He could not strip his off cravat and open his waistcoat to show his true scars—especially with Nanny sitting so nearby—but he pushed back his sleeve and unbuttoned his shirt cuff to show an old wound on his arm just above his wrist, a very small scar barely over an inch long. Jamie stared at it in amazement and then suddenly leapt up to throw his small hands around his neck.

"I am sorry you got hurt," he whispered in his uncle's ear, squeezing tightly with the grip of a child. Fitzwilliam brought his arms around the small body to hug him to his own chest and pat his back.

"I thank you. I am recovered now," he soothed.

"I do not ever want to fight," whispered the little voice in his ear.

"You do not have to fight," said his uncle.

"Johnny says that third sons must be soldiers," and Jamie cried then clinging tightly to his uncle.

"Third sons do not have to be soldiers and you have years before you need to worry about being grown up," and he hugged his nephew to him and almost wept with him.

Jamie cried and then hiccupped and then was done and his grip relaxed and he settled back onto Fitzwilliam's lap. Dickie seemed to have worn himself out and he came over to stare at his uncle and then scrambled up next to his brother and when Fitzwilliam looked down the two little ones were asleep, each in the crook of an arm. Nanny looked at him but he shook his head and let the teapot get cold and held his nephews while he watched John and Ned batter the old trunk until they too grew tired. And then Nanny did insist that all four boys be tucked into their beds and Fitzwilliam left, promising another visit the next day.

6


	17. Chapter 17

Christmas, December 1814

He stared at the invitation and wondered that neither Darcy nor Elizabeth knew what it cost him to visit. He supposed that as guardian to Georgiana he had responsibilities, at least, until she reached her majority and that he must visit Pemberley at least once or twice a year to see his cousin and do his duty to her.

He sat in front of the fireplace; the invitation on the mantelpiece at Fitzwilliam House, the coals burned low and not seeming to give off much light though there was heat. His drink was almost gone which helped to keep his body warm though it might muddle his thoughts. He contemplated his commission and whether he should really leave the army now that Bonaparte was gone and banished to Elba; so many troops had gone to the Americas to fight, was there a place for him? But the army gave him a structure and an excuse for keeping away from family when he wished for an excuse—though the invitation that stared down at him was one he felt he could not ignore or say nay to.

He swore and cursed at the coals and his damned luck, it was bad enough being a younger son, but also losing out in his own extended family to his cousin; a cousin he _did_ value and against whom he had no grievance but that he had married the woman Fitzwilliam loved—and one he had, once upon a day, helped to woo by giving Darcy hints as to where she walked and as to what to say. He knew Elizabeth had rejected Darcy in Kent, yet somehow Darcy had found her again and wooed her another day; it was a tale he had not heard. Far too many other subjects had been discussed between the cousins when they met—his brother's passing, Fitzwilliam's own survival in Spain—too serious for Darcy to bother sharing his tale of renewed wooing.

"I will go, and stay the entire time and not be affected," he vowed out loud, raising his cup and swallowing the last of his brandy.

* * *

The roads provided a perfect excuse for not arriving exactly on time and it was, he guessed, when he saw another carriage pull up right before his, to be a large house party. He might yet be able to blend into the shadows and find amusement, if not comfort, with some of the guests in sport or talk. The other carriage disgorged strangers, but they were, apparently, relations or friends of Elizabeth who was there to hug and kiss them including even the children who frisked out of the carriage anxious to be freed from its confines and to move and to explore. He was thankful that she was so engrossed with her family and that it was only Darcy who welcomed him with a cuff to his shoulder and a kind word and then he was relinquished to a servant to be shown to his room to wash and to change.

It was an informal country house party, with amusements suggested but nothing required of the guests though there was to be some dancing and some particular evening entertainments. The one formal concession seemed to be the suppers and according to the strict order of precedence he was to be placed next to the hostess when they dined every evening. Fitzwilliam was not sure if it was Darcy's doing or Elizabeth's adherence to the rules of etiquette. He had not seen it done at Pemberley before though Fitzwilliam had never been there with such a large party of guests.

He did his best to avoid both Darcy and Elizabeth for the other parts of the day. He was afraid Darcy would want to share his conquest of Elizabeth's heart with him in details he could not bear to hear but he need not have feared. When at last he found himself ensconced with his cousin it was to discuss some points about Georgiana's guardianship and the need in the coming spring for an extra out lay of money for her presentation at court and her formal coming out in London. Darcy solicited the help of the Countess Dunchurch and of Lady Susanna for their help and Fitzwilliam ensured his cousin that they would be delighted.

"I thank you," cried Darcy. "It would be particularly fitting for Lady Susanna to help since she has had her own court presentation and Elizabeth has not, yet Mrs. Darcy values her friendship. I know that they became particular acquaintances after meeting this spring." He seemed to hesitate to mention that they met at Richard's funeral.

Fitzwilliam was surprised, his sister was a very private person, the most guarded of all of his siblings; he found it perverse luck that Elizabeth would become particular friends with Susanna. "Are you to come to Rosings still in the spring if you are also to go to London as well?" Fitzwilliam asked.

"Yes," and Darcy laughed. "I fear it will be a busy year; and with my luck Mrs. Darcy will be expecting a child and not be able to travel. Did I tell you my friend Bingley is a father already? With five older sisters he seemed determined to prove he can father sons and has a fine, fat, healthy son."

Fitzwilliam had blanched at his cousin's speech but Darcy did not notice, speaking with pride about his friend's son, a pride that bordered on envy.

They confirmed their dates to travel together to Rosings and Anne's health came up.

"She should never have come to Richard's funeral. I do not know why Lady Catherine insisted that she travel for it," said Fitzwilliam.

"I agree," said Darcy. "We both know she is not going to improve and I see signs of her health failing though on her good days she looks perfectly normal which fools so many and gives people, and especially Lady Catherine, false hope."

"False hope," repeated Fitzwilliam quietly and he nodded though his mind was not thinking of his frail cousin, Anne.

* * *

Elizabeth had been especially pleased to have her family visiting. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had arrived with all four of their children, the nursery scrubbed, the dust clothes removed and a local girl hired as a nursery attendant just for their pleasure. Mr. Bennet had been invited as well and he was to bring Mary who initially protested she did not like to travel, but was persuaded when Elizabeth wrote to her about the size of the Pemberley library and of the number of pianofortes available to play. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty were to go to Jane and Bingley for Christmas. To her delight, and though it required some extra effort—especially on poor Mrs. Reynolds part—when Mr. Bennet showed up at the beautiful double-doors that were the entrance to Pemberley House, there were two sisters in the carriage with her father: Mary _and_ Kitty. Kitty owned that she would rather come to Pemberley, she liked it far better than she liked Netherfield Hall where there was only people fussing over baby Charles and there was also Miss Bingley whom she still found a little frightening. Elizabeth also suspected that there was a particular young man she had tender feelings for in Derbyshire and who had caught her eye that summer. Mrs. Reynolds was directed to find a place for Kitty and the house was able to absorb one more guest quite easily.

Elizabeth delighted in having her family about her. Mrs. Gardiner and the children rode around the grounds inspecting every inch in a nice little phaeton. She devised games and amusements for her little cousins who particularly enjoyed being outdoors in the gardens and woods—so different from their home and surroundings in London. Mr. Bennet and Mary seemed never to be out of the library; and Kitty, having visited once already, was quite mistress of the place herself. Kitty knew her way through the maze of rooms, was familiar with the staff and acquainted with all the surrounding neighbors and almost as though Elizabeth's shadow.

Her family delighted in Pemberley almost more than Elizabeth did.

Elizabeth's one regret, which made her quite melancholy was that with Mr. Bennet and her sisters here, and Mrs. Bennet at Netherfield—and Lydia still in the north—there was no one at Longbourn to celebrate Christmas for the first time since Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had married. She harkened back to her conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam and realized that such was the result of marriage that events change—even happy ones—in ways that are not to be anticipated. One celebrates an event, year after year with high expectations, and she thought of her past Christmases with fondness. A person always hopes for the better and she hoped this first one at Pemberley was to be equally happy.

* * *

Secretly, the seating arrangements meant she had an excuse to speak with Colonel Fitzwilliam every evening; she had missed his conversation and they never seemed to have an opportunity during those carefree and festive mornings and afternoons to speak to each other despite the informality of the days. Elizabeth always recalled with fondness their previous conversations—every single one had been a delight, either instructive or warm or witty—she found herself looking forward to having the opportunity to speak to him it was as if they could instantly find a topic to discuss and were fully into its depths within minutes. There had been an easiness between them whenever they had the time to flesh out a subject.

She and Darcy never talked so.

She was Darcy's wife, his lady—she had established herself, visited the tenants and the neighbors, near and far—was mistress of Pemberley, and would be, God willing, mother of his children someday; Elizabeth looked down at the end of the table at her husband and considered him as her lover. It no longer made her blush to consider him so, though she did smile. She turned to look at Fitzwilliam suddenly and contemplated him in that role and then she did blush deeply, reaching for her wine glass to cover the color in her cheeks.

She had never considered that with any other gentleman, considered him in her bed, yet she looked again at her cousin who was speaking to Mrs. Stanhope. She could see him in profile, she had always admired his face for it spoke of his being a man of action, the things he had done, his character; she looked to his broad expanse of chest and wondered how he looked clothed only in his nightshirt and then looked down at her plate to push her food around to rob her mind of such images.

His eyes were on her then and she could not keep looking down at her plate, she looked up and they stared at each other, their neighbors engaged, and he drank in the sight of her as though it was only the two of them in the room. He was hard pressed not to reach for her hand. Whatever was in her thoughts pulled at him. Those dark eyes unsettled him and made him shift in his chair. He wondered what she was thinking that unsettled him so much.

"Mrs. Darcy," asked Alport and she turned and the connection broke and his chest crumbled inside and he thought he would pack and leave and need to flee that very night. He could no longer bear the visit.

* * *

Elizabeth watched her sisters as they composed themselves when the gentlemen came to join them after port, cigars and news. Both looked up as if seeking out a particular gentleman though they quickly looked down at their work. Mr. Watson came to sit between them. Elizabeth frowned; she glanced over at the Longlane brothers who had entered laughing, heading for the coffee which Georgiana poured with a faint smile. Mr. and Mrs. Alport were in attendance with one of their sons who had finished a term at school and was home for the holiday.

She looked again at her sisters speaking to the curate who bordered with Rev. Worth and wondered that they would be content and happy to be conversing with him when there were other, more worthy gentleman in the room to draw their attention. Her marriage had afforded them the opportunity to meet men from a potentially higher sphere of life; she pursed her lips and continued to pour the tea.

It seemed not all of the gentlemen had come back after separating from the ladies and when her husband came for his tea she inquired of him about this fact.

"Billiards," was his short reply. Gentlemen must have their sport, apparently, and even the ladies did not hold their full attention.

* * *

Colonel Fitzwilliam had managed not to flee Pemberley and his young acquaintances from the previous evening at the billiards table had lined up enough sport to keep him occupied through most of his days but he still feared the evening meal.

Her young sister found him at breakfast, however, the next morning and asked him if he minded that the seating be rearranged in the evening.

"I am helping out with some household duties, the seating," she said with a note of pride. "Lizzy feels it is too festive to always be insisting on seating by precedence, but she thought to ask you, as the highest ranking person here if you did not mind if we changed?"

'Lizzy'—he filed that away—and then said he did not mind in the slightest.


	18. Chapter 18

Pemberley, March 1815

Fitzwilliam had decided he would leave the army after completing this trip with Darcy to Rosings. He would seek a purchaser for his commission and remain at Fitzwilliam House in London since it had proved successful to live with Radbourne. His general knew his decision and as he traveled to Pemberley in early March to retrieve his cousin he considered the changes he was facing in his life. He was a man of action, a man used to daily action and activity, and yet he was to now become a true gentleman. Dunchurch had given him part—a large part—of Richard's allowance, a fact that nagged at him. Fitzwilliam could live as the second son; a man of leisure now, but only because of his brother's passing.

His coach pulled into a travel inn for fresh horses and Fitzwilliam flung open the door of his carriage to stretch his legs and seek refreshment. The courtyard was expansive, filled with the activity of people, dogs, horses and the bustle and smells associated with each. The inn doors beckoned, cracked slightly with the noise of a multitude of voices spilling out from within its walls. He entered and was hard pressed to find an empty chair let alone a free table.

"A private parlor?" asked a voice at his elbow, having taken his measure rather effectively. But he shook his head and asked for ale and a seat. The innkeeper waved him towards a far corner where one lone table stood free. As he traversed the room the excitement and murmur of voices kept assaulting him, news of some incredible type was on everyone's tongues. And as he passed a table he heard, distinctly the name "Napoleon," and he stopped to look down at the occupants. Two, at least, were ex-soldiers by their bearing and though Fitzwilliam did not wear his colors he put a hand on the back of a free chair and asked to sit. His measure was taken in the same way and he was waved into the chair.

His new companions were local men, ex-soldiers as he had deduced, all come to the inn for drink and conversation. And such talk! News that transfixed Fitzwilliam to his chair as though he became part of it and would nevermore be able to move. Napoleon Bonaparte had escaped off of his island, Elba, and landed on the Continent and was said to be heading for Paris. People, the masses, ex-soldiers, were thronging to him in France. They seemed to be welcoming him back with enthusiastic arms as if they did not like their King Louis XVIII and wished for their Emperor to return, as if no one in France recalled the losses of the past ten or more years—Russia, the rout out of Spain, the Coalition army chasing them from the Continent—and could only recall _Le Emperor_ and his glory.

Colonel Fitzwilliam listened and considered all the implications of such news. The British government would likely to be slow to respond yet the military would begin a response immediately to move against Bonaparte. It seemed incredible to Fitzwilliam that this snake in the grass would remain within the confines of the borders of France. Napoleon wanted to be Emperor, to have an empire, not merely be King of France.

He would not sell his commission; he decided as he sipped his ale and talked with his colleagues. Should he even go to Rosings? Darcy had not come last year, could his cousin go alone to Anne and Lady Catherine this year?

His coachman came in to let him know that the horses were fresh, the coach ready but the Colonel forestalled him and turned to the innkeeper asking for that private room and quill and ink and paper. He wrote to his general and expressed his ready willingness to be available for whatever was needed detailing his schedule through Easter and beyond.

Fitzwilliam continued on his journey arriving at Pemberley the next day. Georgiana met him at the door, full of life and mirth, obviously happy to see him, rushing down the steps as soon as he alighted from the carriage to exclaim over his stay though it was to be only a few short days before he was to leave again with her brother for Rosings. She inquired about his health and his travels and his brother, Lord Radbourne, with a chatter that seemed uncharacteristic of her. He was pleased to see happiness in her, a vitality to her; 'she must be getting over her disappointment,' he thought, 'from her summer, three years past now.'

Elizabeth appeared at the door and came down to put her arm around Georgiana's waist and to smile at him; a smile that still disarmed him. She styled her hair in a different manner; it was not a big change, but he noticed it and was not sure if it pleased him. Elizabeth welcomed him cordially as well, insisting they retire out of the chilly March air. He asked after Darcy and Elizabeth said she reckoned estate business kept him occupied as he prepared to be gone to Kent and then to London. They saw little of him during the day.

Georgiana was ready to drag him to the music room but Elizabeth let him wash and change before Miss Darcy tackled him, eager to show him how well she and Elizabeth played duets together on the pianoforte. This was followed by being led to a room where she displayed paintings she had created. Georgiana, apparently, received the services of a London master. To his eye they were like all the others he had seen created by other young ladies but his eye was taken by some portraits in one corner, near the window.

"You do fine work on portraiture," he said looking at likenesses of his cousin and of Georgiana's companion. He then realized that there was also a portrait of Georgiana.

"Elizabeth has done those," said Georgiana. "She has been sitting with Monsieur Partout for lessons as well." She spoke with pride and no hint of envy about Elizabeth's work. Fitzwilliam looked again at the delicate watercolors and wondered that she could keep surprising him and it made him both happy and he felt crushed that he could not be by her side, seeing such a talent bloom. There were charcoal sketches as well, the servants or neighbors he had not met and he wondered that she had such a latent talent that she could receive instruction now on drawing and yet be so good. He supposed that her lifelong study of people's character had a lot to do with it. That she could translate what she knew of people and their characteristics to paper.

The artist stood in the doorway looking at the two of them. "Mr. Darcy has returned, Fitzwilliam, and tea is ready. Georgiana, you shall have to share him," she said with a laugh.

Miss Darcy hooked her arm through his and escorted him to the afternoon parlor, all the while chatting about little things while Elizabeth followed. His mind had returned to Napoleon but he reckoned he could seclude himself with his cousin later and must partake tea with the ladies first.

It was, of course, Elizabeth who noticed his distraction from the subjects at hand and who suggested that the men retire to the study for stronger drinks. Darcy had appeared distracted as well, but, as they walked off, Darcy excused himself and his distracted manner and said he many details to handle if he was to be gone from Pemberley for many months: details about crops and tenants and payments and he had received word that the vicar at one of the livings under his control had taken ill unexpectedly and the apothecary was not sure what was the matter with him.

Fitzwilliam shared his news immediately; he did not care about Darcy's small world concerns when the stage of the whole world was likely to be set and the world to be watching what became of it. Darcy blanched and stared at his cousin; his drink of no use in reviving his spirits. Darcy was not such a man of action to know his own character and to know, immediately, what to do. When Fitzwilliam applied to him about attending their family at Rosings alone, Darcy replied—

"I shall need to think and consider what is best to do. We do not know that Napoleon means to strike outside of France, Fitzwilliam. Perhaps he will make a coup d'état and over-throw King Louis, but does that mean we, the English, would be called in yet again to fight? Wellington ensured last year that he was chased away, how could he have gotten off of Elba? Are we really to fight? Shall you?"

"Yes, I will fight," replied the solider without mincing a word.

Darcy looked stunned. After Fitzwilliam's last battle, not a victory, or a string of victories, like so many Peninsula veterans had experienced, but _such_ a defeat, Darcy could not fathom that Fitzwilliam could ever conceive of going off to war again. Ordal had been said to be the last French victory on Spanish soil, such an experience was not something at all to celebrate or to consider repeating.

* * *

He lay in what had to be the best guest suite at Pemberley, the largest bed, the sheets crisp, smelling of fresh air and that slight scent of a flat iron. He indulged for a few moments in the pleasures of the sheets against his skin, they had been dutifully warmed on this cold March evening by some unseen maid, tasked no doubt by the housekeeper to see to his needs. He wondered if she had been so directed by Elizabeth. Did Elizabeth worry about his needs while he was a guest under her roof? He supposed she did as she often inquired of him how he was doing and whether he was comfortable.

She had certainly grown into the role of _Mistress of Pemberley_ with an ease, though there was something, a hint of a something, in her manner that spoke of a little unease. They could not speak with the same familiarity they once had, before her marriage, but he wondered if being the rich, great lady of Pemberley was not the achievement she sought in life, that it did not hold the fulfillment that would keep her engaged with a purpose. Perhaps that was why drawing and painting called to her now.

He tore his mind from his cousin's wife to thoughts of Napoleon. He knew he would fight; it was simple. He knew there would be war again; though war was never simple and he could not fathom what such a fight would look like against this new war with Napoleon—would it again take years and countless lives? But he thought of those he loved: Elizabeth, his Mamma, his sisters, Radbourne, the rascals; if he fought and they stopped Bonaparte and little Jamie did not ever have to fight because _he_ did, even if it cost him his life, it would be worth it.

* * *

The news could not be kept from the women; it would be bantered around the neighborhood shortly if it was not already. Georgiana had paled and looked frightened and said nothing.

Darcy, in speaking of the news, had declared in the same breath that he could not conceive that it would lead to any difficulties for the British Empire: the French may do what they like; trade a King for an Emperor but it was not likely to affect them.

"It will mean war," said Fitzwilliam firmly.

"But what does that mean," said Elizabeth looking at Fitzwilliam, "what would that look like?"

"Napoleon has grown fat and lazy," said Darcy, "he is far older, and I cannot see him retracing the same steps he did years before."

"He is still just as wily," said Fitzwilliam, "we cannot underestimate him."

"And Wellington?" asked Elizabeth. "The Duke is older too, and stories are of his gracing the salons and parlors of the wealthy in London, shall he return to the fight?"

"Wellington is older and experienced and every bit the same Field Marshall he was in Spain, if we have him we have half a chance," replied the solider with some feeling. Georgiana looked at him then and a little color crept to her face.

"I cannot believe it will come to this," said Darcy. "The logistics, both sides need men and supplies, it seems incredible."

"We know so many who could be called. Mr. Edmund Longlane was to receive a commission and though we do not know him, one of Mrs. Alport's sons serves as a rifleman. And Mamma just wrote the other day of that one of the Lucas sons has received a commission; it affects so many," cried Elizabeth to whom the extent of the conflict was coming to light, unfolding in a dark way. She dared not mention Mr. Wickham in front of Darcy despite all that he had done; even knowing his child, a son, was six or seven months old by now.

"Shall the government risk all these men again? Are not so many of our soldiers in the Americas already? We can ill afford such a fight," said Darcy.

"But if we must face it, it is a battle we must fight and win at all costs," replied Fitzwilliam.

* * *

The two cousins left for Rosings sooner than they planned. Elizabeth considered it could not have been described as a pleasant visit with that overlay of worry. Her chief concern became Georgiana whose demeanor had undergone a transformation and not one back to the shy, self-effacing child she had first met almost two years previously. It was a profound change from the mirthful, happy young woman who had been looking forward to her season in London.

Georgiana barely spoke, replied to questions put to her with simple answers and spent most of her time at the instrument—she had lost interest in her drawing. Elizabeth could not get her [interested] in speaking about London again. With such news as crept its way towards them Elizabeth considered that a come-out in London might not be the best idea now.

The Congress of Vienna declared Napoleon an outlaw in mid-March and then a week later came news that Napoleon Bonaparte had arrived in Paris to jubilant crowds and that Louis XVIII had fled. The news from Vienna was also of war as former Coalition countries that had gathered to defeat Napoleon before, gathered and pledged once again to commit men to arms.

Elizabeth had said goodbye to Fitzwilliam and considered what the simple word and handshake meant. Fitzwilliam said he would not return to Pemberley until the conflict—in whatever form it would take—was completed. She and he both knew he was going to war. And she hated Pemberley then, hated Derbyshire, three days of travel from London, three day old news—so remote and isolated. Any news must travel first from Paris to London or Vienna to London, or some other town on the continent to London and then on to Derbyshire. Could she move to London, open up Darcy House to be nearer the news, what excuse could she give her husband for wishing for such a move? The smallest part of her heart was so she could have the earliest news of Fitzwilliam, but she could not admit that reason to anyone, not even to herself.

Georgiana was terrified the more the news came trickling into Derbyshire of going to London or of leaving Pemberley and Elizabeth realized, on more reflection, she had an obligation to her sister-in-law to care for her, to be mistress of Pemberley, and care for the estate, its tenants and be the lady of the manor with the neighbors though she might, wish otherwise. She would stay at Pemberley.

"The Devil has been unchained," proclaimed the newspapers.

* * *

Two days after Easter his orders found him at Rosings. He was to join a combined British/Dutch force under the command of the Duke of Wellington that was to assemble in the Netherlands and to attack France. The other Coalition countries of Prussia, Austria and Russia were assembling troops as well, all to invade France on a specified day, sometime in the summer. Fitzwilliam was to proceed to Portsmouth where members of his regiment were gathering as battalions returned from the Americas, called back to help defeat Napoleon. His orders were to leave by mid-May for Ostend in the Netherlands.


	19. Chapter 19

Waterloo, June, 1815

Fitzwilliam had arrived at Portsmouth almost too late to make the ship's departure. Dunchurch had sent horses which were badly needed and been requested by the army if they could be spared, and the organization of seven horses and three grooms and his own gear had tested his abilities. The horses were loaded on a ship he did not believe could handle the crossing all the many miles to Ostend, let alone make it halfway to Calais and with men and horses, food, supplies and casks of drink to cart over as well. He parted with the grooms shaking hands with each in turn and telling them to report his thanks to the Earl for the horses and sent them on their way back to his father. He watched the fine forms of the horses as they were loaded onto the ship and wondered how many would return, just as he wondered how many of the soldiers who stood on the quayside would never return, their bodies to be buried somewhere in France and to never return to English soil. He wondered if he would see England again.

The days in Ostend were a balance of waiting: waiting for news, news of the war, their orders, news of Napoleon's actions, news from home, and also of activity as they drilled and marched and practiced. Some of the Peninsula regiments, battle-experienced officers and men were there and yet there were new men, untested, newly commissioned officers, so they drilled and marched and practiced. Many regiments had moved on to Ghent, or even to Brussels, but he was in a mass encampment at Ostend as it swelled its ranks waiting for battle to begin.

It is odd that in a sea of red, and in uniforms of largely the same design—though not exactly the same, that was a point of great distinction for battalions—and in a sea of men, he could pick out the set of familiar shoulders, even if Wickham's back was turned towards him. Perhaps it was because he had known him when they were youth together, when he had visited Pemberley and he and Darcy and Wickham—and his brother Richard—had ridden on horseback or played at sport. Or, because he had also known him later as a young man of questionable reputation. Wickham stood talking to a group of enlisted men whose eyes followed the officer eagerly as he spoke with animation. He had always had a certain charisma, kept a room in rapt attention with his stories. Fitzwilliam walked over to the group.

"Wickham," he nodded to the man as he came upon him. The enlisted men saluted and began to disperse.

"Colonel," nodded the ensign.

"How are you?" he did not quite know what prompted the question or the desire to be friendly, but they were brothers at arms and that held weight in his book.

"Well, Fitzwilliam, I am doing well. I cannot say much for all of this drilling and cannot wait to get to the fight and show Boney what we are made of," he smiled, and it _was_ an infectious smile. "And how do you do, sir?" he seemed to throw the 'sir' on, as an after-thought.

"I am well. How is your wife, did you not marry recently?" asked Fitzwilliam

"She has come with me, the baby too," he replied with some pride. "Would not leave my side, or be left behind."

Fitzwilliam started, "I should have been surprised that your commander should allow it," he cried.

"We did not get permission; she is not here on a regimental billet. I have had to set her up in a hotel and remain with the men," he grinned. "But you know the Bennet daughters are high-spirited women, and do not take no for an answer."

Fitzwilliam stared then. "Bennet daughters?"

"Yes, perhaps it was a secret, I suppose Darcy would not care or dare to share our close connection. Mrs. Wickham is Mrs. Darcy's sister."

"No, I did not know," he was quiet then. Darcy did keep a secret here or there. He had written to Fitzwilliam to say that Wickham had married, but had not shared that it was to Elizabeth's sister. "Perhaps you might introduce me to your wife, Wickham?" he asked then. The ensign was surprised by the request and his eyes darted to the side suspicious of Fitzwilliam's inquiry.

"Yes," he answered finally, "with pleasure." And they nodded their goodbyes.

Many days later, as May nudged its way into June and Fitzwilliam was walking back to his room at his hotel—officers received accommodations at hotels as available, enlisted men braved the elements in tents—he ran into Wickham and his lady in the small section of town that was becoming his little neighborhood.

Mrs. Wickham, a baby at her hip, was introduced to him. Wickham mentioned Fitzwilliam's rank, but included his relationship to Mr. Darcy. He shook hands with her, and she was talkative and excited about the coming battle, sure that her Wickham would distinguish himself above all the rest of his regiment. Fitzwilliam walked along with them as they went along to their own accommodations, a far poorer place than his.

He was surprised how different she was from Elizabeth; youthful and pretty; she was tall, taller even than the one sister he could recall meeting at Christmas: Catherine. She was far fairer than Elizabeth too and her eyes were an English blue. She seemed skittish, underneath her talk of confidence in her husband, and her eyes were a little hallowed looking as though worried, though it could simply be from caring for the baby or living in a foreign land.

He bade them farewell, passing on a compliment about the fat cheeks of the baby.

* * *

Some of his fellow officers complained of all of the society to be had if they could but be in Brussels and not waiting to be deployed from Ostend. Fitzwilliam did not mind. Some officers did leave; having received invitations to the Duchess' ball, but it was not in his nature to seek gaiety. He left that for the inexperienced who needed amusement and distraction from the weeks of waiting. The Russian and Austrian armies seemed slow to form or to arrive. At least word had come that the Prussians were on the road and an invasion of France might yet occur. The Coalition forces were not to invade until July which still seemed an interminably long time. But he was an old campaigner, knew there would be long days of waiting and then the intense activity that would follow, knew that the fight would come and that Wellington would pick his day and they would have their fight.

And then word did come in mid-June, just before dawn they were roused from their beds and the men were to be mustered and their equipment packed and companies, when ready, fell out on the road to Ghent. And all that practice at drilling and marching paid off as the men fell to in their formations, keeping pace to move the thirty miles to Ghent before nightfall.

All the while rumors flew, soldiers on foot or on horseback passed by with news of the fight, and of such horrible news, that Napoleon, not having waited to meet the Coalition forces in battle at a place of _their_ choosing had slipped into the Netherlands in a sneak attack and caught even Wellington by surprise. Most of the officers in Brussels had been at the Duchess of Richmond's ball, even the Duke had attended. Wellington and his army had raced out to meet one of Napoleon's generals with the forces he had at-hand while Napoleon himself attacked the Prussians, attempting to keep the two Coalition forces from meeting and strengthening against the French.

"Wily," thought Fitzwilliam, as they marched hard to Ghent.

The news at Ghent was not good. The day's battle had gone to the French and Wellington had been forced to retreat back towards Brussels, near a town called Waterloo. Fitzwilliam was not surprised how quickly the wives, the retainers and the other camp followers showed up behind them as though they too kept their possessions close-to-hand and ready. He and his men bunked down to sleep and awoke to new orders to march on towards Brussels. They had fewer miles to traverse but the road was littered with baggage wagons and carts and the debris of left-behind possessions as the Bruxelloise had abandoned their city for Ghent—or for Antwerp—and attempted to cart off their possessions with them, but then abandoned them by the roadside as the going proved slow or unsafe. An order was given for the soldiers to clear the roads. Many of the men, particularly the new ones, grumbled at missing the fighting, but Fitzwilliam barked orders and they made their much slower way towards Brussels—and the battle—clearing a way in case retreat was needed. A means of retreat was important; he knew from personal experience.

Rain set in as darkness fell and they marched through the deserted streets of Brussels and continued through towards Waterloo. There had been a lull that day, apparently, both sides assessing their strengths, attempting to find the other's weaknesses; Wellington hoping for news that the Prussians, led by Blücher—routed by Napoleon himself the day before—would arrive to fight. The rain was persistent and his men, who on the first day had been ecstatic and eager to get to the battle, were now, after a second day of marching and weary of the work of clearing the lines, wet and discouraged while the hard rain fell on them. There were at least some trees, here and there, to offer some shelter for them in an attempt to sleep. There was no commissary with a meal so only such food as any one man carried himself was available to eat. It rained all night without ceasing. Fitzwilliam leaned against his tree trunk, his hat stuffed down over his eyes to keep the rain from them and felt that the rain must be a good omen. Many of his battle experiences had begun with a sense of euphoria, of things all in place and of the day being theirs, if this battle began with a deluge it must end with the sun.

There was no real sleep to be had but the rain did stop in the morning; it was to be a sunny Sunday morning. Yet no orders came, no movements were made by the French though they could see their lines drawn up on the south side of the battlefield. Wellington had most of the combined forces hidden up behind a hill—not that Napoleon did not know they were there, and knew their numbers. Fitzwilliam's orders were to remain in reserve in the center behind Wellington and so his men ate what breakfast they could, their feet ankle-deep in mud, and waited for the action. Orderlies and women, wives and others, were right at the back with carts and food, ready to feed and bandage and cart away the wounded or clear the dead, offer help as was needed. Up beyond the hill were even spectators, come to watch the battle as though it were a horse race or some other sporting event.

Then the battle raged around them: the attack on Hougoumont Farm, the defense of La Haye Sainte, the infantry attacks, the cavalry charges, attacks and counter-attacks and the artillery fire from both sides. Casualties fell thickly on both sides and still they were held in reserve. There was no real visibility—no way to assess how the battle was going—the musket and rifle fire from hundreds of thousands of weapons and the smoke from the canons meant the day was dark though they knew the sun was above them. And then their order came in the late afternoon.

He relayed those orders, shouted them, the men formed into their battle square marching into place to face the enemy, tightly packed together, those on the edges firing their rifles, but the center front was the principle area of action and walls of his men fell, a whole line at a time, and he would shout "reform your lines" and the men would form back into place, packed together tightly in moments and they would continue to fire at the enemy. He was thankful for the weeks of drilling and marching and practice as his orders were obeyed instantly which helped to keep many more safe than would have otherwise been though still the French cut them down with musket fire and artillery. He watched fellow officers fall all too frequently and he kept fighting, thinking of Jamie, feeling his small hands wrapped around his neck as though a talisman against any more wounds. Fitzwilliam was at the center front of the line when he heard the sounds of canon fire approaching and turned to see the line beside him decimated and then turned back to see a volley of French musket fire wipe out the line of men on his other side leaving him standing alone at the front, the single man left.

"Reform your lines," he called, reloading his rifle and firing at the French troops just yards away. The regimental square was becoming a house of bodies and yet they kept up their rifle volley throwing a constant barrage of fire against the French. Word came that La Haye Sainte in front of them had fallen and the few men who had defended it fell back towards them and Wellington was nowhere to be seen and he thought, as his men fell around him, of his mother's words. Hope meant you have no certainty of the outcome and there seemed, as he saw more fallen bodies around him than men standing, that the outcome was poor: he did not think he would see those that he loved ever again, but he would have hope. Hope for the battle, hope that he might see his family again, to see Jamie, hope for him and Elizabeth.

"Reform your lines," he called whenever more men fell and they fired and fired and fired again at the French, filled in their lines when canon took them apart. And then Wellington was there on his magnificent horse, there was news that the Prussians had at last arrived on their left flank though the French in front seemed to redouble their efforts against them at that news. Napoleon, as a last maneuver, sent in his Imperial Guard up the center, that elite, hulking, tattooed and undefeated unit up against the center line of Wellington's forces. Wellington called up every single one of his army regiments then, the entire reserve, and threw all he had against the Imperial Guard, the last of his strength.

And Fitzwilliam kept shouting orders, certain he was the only officer left standing in his company though his sergeants had stepped up and called out orders standing in for their fallen officers in a manner that swelled his heart and their regiment kept firing, so small now, so few men left he wondered that it was effective at all, but it and the other regiments and the assault on the flank by the Prussians was enough, apparently, and for the first time ever, Napoleon's elite Imperial Guard turned and the shouts that went through the British men, the huzzahs to be heard even above the noise of the battle gave zest and energy to every fighting man. Wellington waved his hat—the sign to advance. Fitzwilliam lifted his rifle over his head, pointing and ordered his men to advance and a shot tore through his arm, knocking his rifle out of his hand. He clasped his useless arm to his chest, grabbed his rifle, or perhaps another man's rifle, from the ground with his other, and again called for an advance and led the way forward against the retreating Imperial Guard.

And when the smoke finally cleared there was a column of red coats standing in the middle of the battlefield as the blue backs of the French were seen in retreat and cheers and shouts and cries went around for a long while before the work of counting the dead and binding the wounded began.

There was still light, the sun was still above the horizon as Fitzwilliam made his way through the battlefield, back to where his regiment had made its stand and to assess the amount of the casualties. He called out to one of his sergeants and asked after him and the man grinned, happy to be breathing and in one whole piece.

"Your arm, sir," the man said then, pointing at him. Fitzwilliam had no notion of pain and had forgotten about his arm and waved the man off.


	20. Chapter 20

The field where his regiment had made its stand was still discernable as a square, as though some giant out of a fairy story had come from the sky and stomped his regiment flat where they had stood. His eyes could only run over the loss of life; it was too soon to allow sensation, feelings, but he assessed the casualties, over half—more—had been lost and he looked out and across at his fallen comrades. At the far corner stood one last officer, an ensign, Mr. Barry. He made a slow way to him and assigned him the task of booking the casualties. The man saluted and walked off in search of the tools needed.

He walked towards the back of the line, intent on lining up help to begin helping the wounded and moving and burying the dead, speaking to his men as he moved. The area was busy already with a cross-section of people, the cries of the injured overlaying all the bustle and activity. Fitzwilliam thought he heard a baby cry, an odd sound for a battlefield and stood still to search through the throngs of people, some in groups, some moving quickly, two-wheeled carts used to move the wounded passing by him overloaded already with men. Then he saw, a woman, a baby wrapped to her lying on the ground in a group surrounded by other women who had no doubt come to help with the wounded men and to have the earliest news of their own husband or man. Her skirts were tattered and bloody and two others were working at bandaging her leg. Mrs. Wickham cried out occasionally as the hands shifted her bloodied leg in a manner that caused much pain.

"Mrs. Wickham," he called when he had reached her and she looked at him with pain-glazed eyes but did not answer. His short inquiry was answered: a musket shot had shattered through her shin. They, the group of women, had been working tirelessly all day to move the wounded despite the battle, but a stray musket shot had caught Mrs. Wickham right at the end, when the Imperial Guard had turned to flee.

"Is there not a surgeon to tend her?" But no, the wounded men came first. One of the women noticed his arm and without asking, took some rags and slung it up which relieved his shoulder, a pain he had not noticed.

"Find Wickham," called a small voice, and he looked down at Elizabeth's sister, her baby lying quiet now against her and accepted his new charge.

Before the sun set, which was thankfully late since it was almost mid-summer's eve, he worked to help see to the wounded and noted Mr. Barry booking the dead and also standing guard over them against looters. He assigned a few more men to help with _that_ task though the exhaustion for all was extreme.

At some point he slept and then woke to the dawn and continued seeing to his regiment. He could almost not lift his eyes across the battlefield to see the sight of the piles of bodies, English and French, the stench and the blood, so he worked where he was, where they had fought, where so many of his own had died, to ensure they would be carted off to be buried with charity.

And in taking a break and seeking a pot to boil water, for his one remaining store of foodstuffs were tea leaves and he was determined to drink them, that he saw Mr. George Wickham, his face calm and unblemished though his chest had been ripped open by artillery fire. He squatted down to gently touch the face which was cold, though he still looked just as charming in death. Fitzwilliam searched Wickham's pockets but there was nothing on him, he either had nothing or looters had picked him clean; he then caught the first man he saw and ordered him to haul his old friend, or his old adversary—he was not sure which—away to be booked and to be buried.

Wellington and Blücher had gone to pursue Napoleon to Paris, but Fitzwilliam stayed with so many others to do the dirty work of cleaning and mending and burying.

At some point in the day his arm was looked at, the wound properly stitched and bound and his sling once more around his neck he continued his work. He had been unable to locate Mrs. Wickham anywhere, and certainly hoped she received the services of a surgeon and had not, herself, died from her wounds. What would happen to her child in such a circumstance?

Lieutenant Allen's batsman had survived the battle, though the lieutenant had perished, and Walsh attached himself to the Colonel as if at a loss without a master to serve and to shave and to care for. Fitzwilliam submitted to the Irishman's care, surprising himself since he had sworn he would never have a man in battle again after losing John Moor at Ordal. But on the second day after the battle, he was shaved, his bandages changed and somehow a clean shirt was produced from somewhere as Fitzwilliam still worked at his duties to see the dead buried.

* * *

A stoic-faced woman, slightly gray-haired, a veteran, he did not doubt of previous wars walked by laden with sacks and he hailed her, asking her if she knew where all the women kept themselves, and whether she knew Mrs. Wickham and her disposition? Not all of the women kept together, but Mrs. Wickham did live, her leg amputated and was in a hospital in Antwerp. And what of her child? Another woman was looking after the child, apparently, since it could not be with her in hospital.

It was over thirty miles to Antwerp and the one horse he had retained from his father's stables was still housed in Ostend and no other to be reconnoitered for any free horse that could pull a wagon was in use. His duty was to his regiment, as the senior officer, to see to their well-being, and the battlefield was still not cleared. He did, however, send Walsh, with a letter, to Ostend to walk the entire way, two days, to retrieve his horse.

* * *

Fitzwilliam's orders were to move back to Ostend with his men, but he could not go without ensuring that Elizabeth's sister was properly cared for. Friday, Walsh returned with his horse and the next day Fitzwilliam rode to Antwerp in search of her. Once within the city's gates it was all trial and error in locating her but it seemed that there was one make-shift hospital where the wounded women were being treated, there were a number, including one who had given birth a few days after the battle.

"Mrs. Wickham?" Her eyes had been closed as if sleeping, but she opened them. They were still an English blue, but far more hallowed, her mouth no longer laughing. She simply nodded.

"Ensign Wickham was killed by artillery fire," he said, "I saw to his burial." She nodded again, a slight twist of the mouth denoting the pain inside of anguish and of physical pain. He had thought she might yell or scream but perhaps the pain from her leg, or her expectation of his news was enough to keep her quiet; she was, perhaps, in shock.

"Do you have any money, any way of getting home to England?" and she shook her head and tears fell then. "Where is your son?"

"Mrs. Coxheath has him," was her dull reply.

"Is she in Brussels?" he asked and Mrs. Wickham nodded but shut her eyes against more tears. "I will look him up for you and see about getting you both home to your family," he assured her and left.

When he returned to his temporary quarters in Brussels, Walsh asked him where he had been all day and Fitzwilliam replied he had been to see a lady.

"We all need some relief," laughed his man and Fitzwilliam did not correct him. So many of his men had found some temporary relief in the arms of the prostitutes of Brussels after the battle that he did not bother to set Walsh straight about his own exploits or explain himself.

* * *

He was thankful the lady's name was Coxheath and not Jones and was also of a decent character. Mrs. Coxheath was despairing of caring for an infant, with two of her own and her own man ready to return with his regiment to England.

Fitzwilliam paid her for her troubles yet found himself in possession of a child. A situation an army colonel does not often face when also charged with moving a few hundred men home as well. Whatever Walsh thought of him the evening before that opinion was decidedly revised when he reappeared at noon with an infant and was tasked to immediately find a nurse for it.

It became a matter of logistics then, putting the finishing details on his regiment's deployment to Ostend and seeing to Mrs. Wickham's care and to baby George's needs. He knew he was discussed among the other officers, tales that the child was his that his trips to Antwerp were to a mistress abounded amongst both the officers and the enlisted men. The stories of her charms and her beauty grew every day she lay in her hospital bed until many reckoned he had somehow, despite his plain face—so he must be quite the lover—landed himself with a damsel to rival those of the generals or Dukes but he never said a word. A gentleman always acts like a gentleman.

Eight days after the battle he began moving his men towards Ostend but in easier stages than their forced march to the battlefield. The larger, more intact regiments were being ferried across first to England so he bided his time with the tattered remains of his own. He had the bother of finding a new nurse; the first was Bruxelloise and had a decidedly strong attachment to her family and to her city, though she had at least helped to transport the child to Ostend. Mrs. Wickham mended though the leg was swollen. Her eyes never lost that haunted look as though losing her husband had taken some part of her. Fitzwilliam could appreciate that and though they never spoke about it, he thought it due to her experiences.

As June closed he, Walsh, and two men from his regiment came to Antwerp with a wagon and at the slowest pace possible brought her back to Ostend. He was thankful for the supply of laudanum he was able to procure to ensure the journey did not trouble her leg too much. She cried so much to see her son that he had to leave and largely left her, the nursemaid and the boy alone after that.

It was not until they received word of berths on the ship—and word that the Coalition had taken Paris—that he considered her family and sending word, a letter. He obtained her father's name and address and did send word to England of her health and welfare and of her eventual, though slow, return home.


	21. Chapter 21

Pemberley, July, 1815

It was a three-day journey for the London Gazette to reach Pemberley so the news was always old when it reached them. Yet, after news of the battle at Waterloo, Darcy checked the casualty lists as his first order of business every morning.

 _Alport, Robert: Lieutenant. Wounded, arm, severely. 18 June 1815. Waterloo._

 _Goulding, Martin: Ensign. Wounded, slightly. 18 June 1815. Waterloo._

 _Longlane, Edmund: Lieutenant. Killed. 18 June 1815. Waterloo._

 _Lucas, Anthony: Ensign. Killed. 18 Jun 1815. Waterloo._

* * *

Her family in Hertfordshire within a half-day's journey of the great city received the news in a far shorter time so the family at Longbourn must have read it days earlier than Elizabeth. She gazed at Darcy who was stony and white-faced when he passed her the lists.

 _Wickham, George: Ensign. Killed. 18 Jun 1815. Waterloo._

She was not certain what to say and looked at her husband for guidance. Darcy said nothing for a while.

"I am sorry he came to such an end," he said at last.

"I am too," she replied, wondering at her sister being married at sixteen and widowed at eighteen. They were all so connected, she and Lydia and Darcy and Wickham, and now Wickham was gone. She stared again at the print as if it might have somehow changed while she and her husband were talking but the line still read the same: _Killed_.

* * *

Georgiana did not come to afternoon tea and a note was delivered to say she did not feel well. Elizabeth did not consider it overly much but was concerned when her sister-in-law missed supper. Her husband did not remark on it; Georgiana had, perhaps, missed enough meals to make Darcy not worry about her absence from the table.

Georgiana missed breakfast the next morning and then Elizabeth did worry. He had already breakfasted and was gone so she could not consult him about his sister but she finished her own meal and went to Georgiana's room. There was a long silence after she knocked and she called out to let her sister know she was at the door.

"I do not feel well," called Georgiana without coming to the door, her voice distant and faint.

"May I come in and see you?" asked Elizabeth.

"I only wish to rest," said the voice, fainter still as though she had turned away from the door or turned her head in her pillow.

Elizabeth let her be. Darcy did not appear at noon, nor did his sister. She tackled the door again, knocking with purpose and receiving no response. She was torn between wishing to give her privacy and wishing to help; it seemed, more and more, that this was not a physical ailment but that Georgiana suffered from some difficulty or concern. Elizabeth wondered if Darcy knew about his sister's troubles.

Elizabeth knocked and then without waiting for an answer tried the door, found it unlocked, and entered. Georgiana was in bed, or rather on top of the bed, her knees brought up and her head down with a most forlorn look. Elizabeth felt correct in breeching the door.

"Georgiana you look troubled," said Elizabeth.

The young woman did not look up but kept her head in its position and brought her arms around to wrap her legs in an embrace.

Elizabeth came to stand by the bed. Georgiana was quiet, consumed within herself. Elizabeth looked at the young woman who had the hallmarks of being devoid of any emotion as though she had cried and wailed all through the evening and night and now was depleted of any feelings. Elizabeth sat gently on the bed.

"Dearest Georgiana, what troubles you?"

"I am dead," she said, her head still buried on her knees. Her voice sounded flat and Elizabeth suspected that she had been crying a great deal and had no more tears left to shed, nothing left to feel inside since it had been over a day since she had seen her.

"What has happened, dearest Georgiana," she said as gently as possible.

"My love is dead," said the figure before her.

With three younger sisters, Elizabeth knew that advice was not wanted so much as an ear to be heard and she reached out a hand to run along her sister-in-law's arm and then ran her hand down to clasp Georgiana's hand. It was hot and dry and felt sick, claw-like, though it did squeeze her back and hold onto hers.

"Fitzwilliam said to never talk about it. It was a family matter, but you are family," said Georgiana and she looked up finally. Her face was lined from where she had been pressing it against her skirts; her eyes were dark and circled from lack of sleep and reddened from the tears shed. "My love is dead," she repeated.

"Has something happened with one of the local young men?" asked Elizabeth tentatively still not able to understand Georgiana's distress. "Has one of them spurned you in some way?"

"No, George is dead; he is really dead," she repeated staring past Elizabeth to some point in the room, or on the wall or to some past memory. And then Elizabeth could understand it as if she knew the title of the book, though she still had no idea what the book was actually about.

"Do you mean George Wickham? He was on the lists for Waterloo," she said gently.

"Yes, George. I loved him though I was not supposed to." And then the story came pouring out. Of being an essentially motherless child, growing up in isolation as they never went to London to see the other cousins. She only had a governess and nursery attendants, and her brother. A brother who was loving and yet, the gifts he brought to her and his concern for her education and welfare were more like a father's than a brother's. There were no young ladies of equal station and age for her to associate with; it seemed all the local families of note had sons. So when George Wickham took the time to be a companion and to pay her attention, particularly when her father was ill and Darcy was busy with school and then learning to run the estate, it was heaven on earth to Georgiana. He listened to her grievances and her hopes and made her feel important.

Years later, when she was fifteen and Darcy had set her up with a Mrs. Younge in her own establishment and she was living on her own for a few months of the year in Ramsgate, Wickham had come to her and professed his love to her and they had agreed to get married. Georgiana had seen nothing wrong in it; she still saw nothing wrong in it: she had loved George. It was a simple, straight-forward fact: she loved George. But when she told Darcy about it—she thought he would be happy for her as she thought they were all friends-he had been quite angry and dismissed Mrs. Younge and chased away Wickham and she had been sent home to live at Pemberley and was now back under Darcy's eye again.

It was all explained without tears and with actually very little emotion though Elizabeth felt Georgiana had indulged in both quite a lot over the past day. She reached her other hand over to pull Georgiana into her arms and the young woman stiffened under the embrace as though not used to intimate contact. Elizabeth did not let go but pulled her even closer.

"I am so sorry for all your losses, Georgiana," she said as she held the young woman. "It has been a very difficult time for you." It was such a strange connection to be consoling her sister-in-law over the loss of her love who was Elizabeth's sister's husband.

As she stroked Georgiana's hair and gently rocked her she wondered that Darcy had never shared this story with her. He had warned her of Wickham, but as a painter using only broad strokes who did not adequately convey his subject's likeness. Surely, after their marriage, he could have shared some or all of Wickham's story with her, especially since Wickham was married to her sister. Wickham had, apparently, convinced Georgiana to elope with him, but had been stopped because naïve Georgiana saw nothing wrong in Wickham and told Darcy. But Darcy, apparently, knew more evils about Wickham; he had once used strong language against Wickham when he wrote her that letter two years past now. What secrets about Wickham had he not shared with her, though with Wickham gone now, did that matter?

* * *

Days later she received a letter from her father. That it was her father's handwriting staring at her as she sat down at the breakfast table troubled her; he was a man who could never be bothered to put out the effort to write letters—a fact she knew very well—so his missive had to be important and so she was troubled.

Jane's last letter had hinted about her being with child again and she wondered if something had happened to either the baby or to Jane, though she also wondered that Mrs. Bennet would not write about such subjects to her. Mrs. Bennet was often given to nerves and could not, perhaps, handle writing about such disheartening news.

Mr. Bennet's letter contained information she could have never anticipated: Lydia had followed Wickham to the Netherlands unbeknownst to Elizabeth. Once the Bennets read, as the Darcys had done, the fate of Wickham in the papers they all worried for Lydia but with her being across the Channel—a country away—and it seemed even more difficult to imagine how to retrieve her from a battlefield. Mr. Bennet requested Elizabeth apply to Mr. Darcy to see if he had any ideas as to what was to be done to retrieve Lydia and the baby, for both of them had followed Wickham.

Mr. Darcy walked in on her, once again, in tears over her youngest sister and her plight, and he once again attempted to comfort her, though he could this time take her into his arms to console her and kiss away her tears as he promised to attempt a solution.

He sat down to write to Dunchurch and to Radbourne for advice and to ask of them for news of Fitzwilliam, for nothing had come to him since May from his cousin. He did feel at a loss in this situation; he had no real concept of what to do for his wife or her family. Short of going across the Channel to the Netherlands to search in Brussels for Lydia, he had no ideas and he sat at the desk in his study after he completed his letters to his own family and pondered his situation and his possible next steps.

* * *

A week later a letter from Radbourne stated that Fitzwilliam was well, had suffered a small injury, and was the only officer left in charge of his regiment so would be in the Netherlands for a some time. Darcy might appeal to him for help.

He found her sketching; his sister seemed to no longer care for that occupation, but his wife found great enjoyment from it so it pleased him that there was this particular room designated for it with its large windows on two walls. She had a piece of charcoal in her hand and whatever she was working on she covered up with a blank sheet stating it was not yet complete.

"I have word from Radbourne, Fitzwilliam is well; he has survived yet again," he declared waving the piece of paper. She gasped and covered her mouth with her free hand.

"Thank God! I worry when I read the lists every day, they are still all mostly for Waterloo though there have been other, smaller battles, since Wellington moved towards Paris," she said. Not that her thoughts had been about the hunt for Napoleon; she could only think of her sister and wonder if she would ever see her again and think of Fitzwilliam and wonder at his fate. That concern was now relieved.

"Fitzwilliam is still on the Continent. Radbourne suggests I write to him and have Fitzwilliam search for Mrs. Wickham," said Darcy putting his hand down.

"I have faith in him," she said taking in a huge breath. She stood up and put a hand on Darcy's chest. "May he find her."

"He will," and he kissed her cheek and returned to his study to compose a letter to the Colonel.

Elizabeth sat down to her work, a portrait she had attempted and failed many times. She could conjure up his likeness in her head, but whenever she attempted to sketch Colonel Fitzwilliam she failed. She made him too good-looking which stripped him of his character, somehow. Darcy and his handsome face—and she was lucky that he would sit for her—was easy with its balanced lines and the pleasing curves of cheek and chin and nose. Fitzwilliam had a large aquiline nose, an English nose, smaller eyes and a not so remarkable face, not ugly and yet not as handsome as her husband's and yet she could not explain what drew her to it, only that the measure of his character was to be read there too and that it made _him_ remarkable.

* * *

Catherine arrived for her summer visit as had been planned, but the Bennet carriage contained only her, Kitty's maid and a footman. It was not the Bingley carriage, their new one which Jane had written about in the spring in such detail, but Mr. Bennet's old and well-used travel coach.

She was welcomed happily and Kitty explained that Jane was ill and could not travel and handed Elizabeth a note.

"No, there is no news of Lydia or baby George, Mamma is in hysterics and fears the worst, that she has been kidnapped or forced to marry some horrible foreign man," said Kitty when Elizabeth immediately asked her about their missing sister. She escorted Catherine to her room; a particular room which had become, very much, Kitty's own with her numerous stays at Pemberley.

Jane's note was long but covered a lot of information familiar to Elizabeth. She was with child as she had hinted in her last letter and experiencing terrible sickness again with this pregnancy as she had with the first and did not feel up to travel. Bingley had felt it incumbent to stay by her side so the family had stayed at Netherfield. Elizabeth wondered that with the additional worries about Lydia that Mrs. Bingley might fear for losing her child: it was not an unfounded fear.

She was disappointed that there was no news about Lydia. She went to find Darcy and explained that Bingley and Jane were not to come. He was equally disappointed at that news, but she then went on to mention about the lack of any information of Lydia for the past week.

"I despair of ever hearing news, Mr. Darcy!" she exclaimed. "Have you done all you believe you can?" she cried as tears came then and she could not hold them back. She had been stoic before him so far since that first morning, as regards her sister, but the weeks of waiting and not hearing anything had worn on her. She was not given to inaction and wished they might at least have traveled south, or to the coast and perhaps even over, across the Channel to search for her themselves, rather than sit and wait for letters to come, for others to act.

"There is not much to be done, Elizabeth," he soothed. "Reports were there were hundreds of thousands of soldiers involved in the fight on the Continent, do we even know where she was staying before Napoleon struck at Wellington and was defeated? What city were they billeted in? It would be so difficult to know where to begin such a search!"

"Did you never write to my father to inquire?" she exclaimed.

He shook his head then. "I assumed she would have followed Wickham to the battlefield, what use could such information be?"

"What little you have done!" she cried then, in pain and frustration. "How is it we are not at Longbourn to receive such news as my family receives when it arrives? We could go to London and speak with your cousin Radbourne in person or to go Dover or to Margate and inquire of the soldiers as they return home for news of her. I read of others who are even going to the Netherlands, to Brussels, even to Waterloo as though on a trip to see the battlefield in person—but you have done nothing!" she cried wiping her tears and flinging her hands out in her frustration. "What excuse can you give me for sitting here to only receive letters when there is more that we can be doing!" Her eyes were alight with her anxiety as she cried with resentment over the inactivity.

"I have been out of my element in this situation;" he exclaimed, hurt and offended, "it is different from before when she fled with Wickham to London. I am doing all that I think it is possible for me to do. But to move my family to London or travel to the coast seems excessive!" He took in a deep breath. "There have been estate concerns to keep me here; I need to consider Georgiana. She was not so well in the spring, had no wish to go to London so I scheduled estate improvements, reroofing of cottages and the like, and now the vicar at Kympton is quite ill and I believe I shall need to replace him."

His arguments held no validity for her whether they were legitimate or not. Her temperament was not to be appeased and her frustration at the distance from her family made her unreasonable; her tears fell hotly on her cheeks. "It is a paltry amount you have done for your wife's sister. Think of her son, my little nephew, what is to become of him in those foreign lands? If she is in want of money, what is she going to do? Come upon the town?" and he blanched at that insult she would fling at her own sister. "I am sure those thousands of soldiers would welcome one more willing lady; and if she has to survive by such skills to ensure her boy does, I have no doubt she will." She turned and fled; her tears not to be stopped.

* * *

Darcy did not come to tea, but he often did not join Elizabeth for tea. But he also did not come to supper and no message was sent. She did not ask after him of the servants and did not remark at his absence, or ask that his plate be removed but left it set and she, Catherine, and Georgiana ate together at the appropriate hour and then retired as usual. She left the dressing room door ajar and did not hear him, though she did sleep that night; she assumed he found a different bed from amongst the multitude at Pemberley to repose in.

* * *

An express arrived in the middle part of the next day for Mr. Darcy, who had appeared and even breakfasted with the family though it was an overly polite meal. It was from Mr. Bennet and detailed such news that he interrupted the ladies as they were setting off to visit friends in Lambton. Lydia was found and to come home! She and baby George were in Ostend under the care of Colonel Fitzwilliam and would be coming home, it was hoped, by the end of July. She, herself, had been injured in the battle helping to remove wounded men from the field and she had lost her leg below the knee.

Catherine and Elizabeth cried only tears of joy that she and the baby were found and to come home to Longbourn. It did not matter that she was injured, that she had been found and was being cared for was their only concern, their only happiness, and they hugged and cried in the hall after Darcy had shared the news.

Georgiana had stepped away from the family group and stood with an odd, thoughtful expression on her face.

"Georgiana, is it not excellent news, our sister is found, her son is found!" cried Catherine who left off her hug of Elizabeth and went to throw an arm around her friend, taking up one hand with the other and then leading her around the floor as though in a dance. "She is safe! Lydia is safe and well!" She laughed, a high, echoing laugh, "she is not well if she is missing a leg, but she is safe and baby George is safe and they are to come home to Longbourn!" She continued to lead Georgiana around the hall, laughing and dancing.

"Thank you," said Elizabeth, who put her hand on her husband's arm. She stood on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. "Thank you for writing to Fitzwilliam," she said, with happiness overflowing with each word.

"I am glad all is well, Elizabeth," he said. They stood next to each other to watch Kitty and Georgiana comporting themselves in the hall. He put an arm around her waist and looked down at her. "Perhaps you ought to escort Catherine back home when her trip is over and visit your family?"

She placed both her hands on his arms and looked up at his fine features, ones which had always made her smile, had always been a pleasure to gaze upon. "Thank you, I should love to do that."


	22. Chapter 22

London, Christmas, 1815

Lady Susanna proved to be the center of their social world that December. Her year-round residence in London meant she was well-connected and could introduce Elizabeth to the families currently staying for the holiday season. She also had events of her own planned for the period leading up to Christmas and into the New Year. Recalling another Christmas where she had felt overwhelmed with far too many commitments, Elizabeth attempted, though not always successfully, to see that her family's schedule was not overbooked, especially as she wished to see how well Georgiana fared in moving about in society after expressing such fear in the spring for her come-out.

Elizabeth now thought that much of Georgiana's anxiety had more to do with the up-coming war and her worries about George Wickham—and his having to fight—than worries about being presented to the Queen or anxiety about coming out formally in society. She had been excited, and grown confident and mature since Elizabeth had become her sister until Fitzwilliam had brought them news of Napoleon. Georgiana's demeanor had changed then; she had become a skittish colt, shy, and self-centered.

Elizabeth had thanked Georgiana for sharing her story and spent as much time as she reasonably could with her sister-in-law, making a point of physical affection. For that fact alone seemed to have come out of their talk that day, the motherless child so in want of physical contact and comforts. At some level, she could not fault Georgiana for seeking reassurance with her childhood companion, George Wickham; Elizabeth thought that Darcy was not likely the type of brother who would hug a sister more than ten years his junior. Elizabeth had grown up with four sisters where arms about waists or thrown around shoulders were an almost daily occurrence, and she looked back, once again, with fondness at her childhood.

It had been helpful to have Kitty, now wishing to be addressed as Catherine as she grew into adulthood, come to visit. Catherine and Georgiana's friendship was an important one as well, as they holed up together to share the little intimate delights and secrets of friendship that are so necessary as one grows from a child into an adult—to have a confidante—as Elizabeth had Mrs. Collins and her sister, Jane, to confide in when she was younger, before her marriage.

* * *

Elizabeth had returned to Longbourn to visit her own family and be reunited with her sister Lydia and to hear such tales as she did not think possible! When Elizabeth had then returned to Pemberley in September worried that Georgiana would be just as listless as when she left, wanting Elizabeth's constant company, she was surprised to find that Georgiana had blossomed; her sister saying "I have been visiting a lot, and keeping busy." The plumpness of her cheeks and the overall color of them and her manner assured Elizabeth that she well and on the mend from her difficulties.

Georgiana had inquired, in a friendly manner about her trip and then asked particularly about her sister, Lydia, and the baby. Elizabeth told the same tale she had heard during her visit at Longbourn, all of which still sounded so fantastic in the retelling. Tales of Lydia not receiving a billet as an officer's wife of the company so she and Wickham agreed for her to follow, nevertheless, and of her small, single room accommodation in Ostend, and of the waiting. And then the call to action, of her walking the fifty miles to the battlefield, of sleeping on a church stoop while it rained in Brussels the night before and then going to Waterloo that morning. She had strapped baby George to her back and watched, the French not beginning the fight until almost eleven and then once the battle raged all she did was to help cart the wounded men and see that baby George was well. It was not until the very end of the day that the musket ball had taken her leg, and she had been thankful that she moved the baby to her front to feed him as she would have likely crushed him as she fell. Lydia did not speak much about her long hospital stay or the events after the battle. Lydia was still Lydia, in ways, and focused more on the exciting moments in her life, of the excitement of the battle.

Georgiana had grown pale during the whole story and could only keep saying "I could never do that; I could never have even stood at the edges to witness the battle. I could never have done that."

She did ask, when Elizabeth was done, how the baby fared and Elizabeth assured her he was healthy and sure to be his mother's bane since he could toddle on tentative feet now and Lydia could not yet be considered for a replacement leg as her wound was still too raw and too sore. The surgeons said it would be a year before she might get a new wooden leg. "I am legless Lydia," she had joked often and Elizabeth shared that with Georgiana who did not consider it with equal humor.

Elizabeth had sketched a small portrait of baby George, and meant to do him in watercolors, so had brought it back with her to Pemberley and had been working on it and showed that to Georgiana and her sister stared at it for some time.

"His eyes are blue," she said at last.

"Yes, Lydia's eyes are blue," Elizabeth replied.

"George had soft brown eyes," said Georgiana.

They spoke no more of Lydia or baby George or even directly of Wickham though _his_ name did get mentioned as the local men who were casualties at Waterloo were often discussed at social gatherings. But Georgiana let Wickham be laid to rest; he had married another lady and had a living son and so, in her heart, she laid him to rest.

* * *

Catherine came to London and the Gardiners made up a lot of their plans. The parties seemed to be composed more of her family than of Darcy's when they visited a house or attended a play or a performance. Only Fitzwilliam and Lady Susanna were in town at this time of the year.

Though she had hoped there would be more family time, there were so many people who asked for their portraits to be done that Elizabeth was kept busy. She sketched the Gardiner children; she sketched the new baby, Arthur, named of course for the Duke of Wellington. She sketched her friend Lady Susanna and Lady Susanna's friend, Miss Clarion though Elizabeth found Mrs. Heene, companion to both women, a much more interesting study because of the wrinkles and the set of her eyes as though the loss of her husband on the Peninsula and her experiences—she had been an army wife—could be read on her face. The experiences of one's life were always to be found on your face, Elizabeth thought.

It was just as well that she had sketched Georgiana many times; Georgiana seemed to have a number of invitations as she and Catherine had a great number of engagements to choose from even though she was not yet formally out. Elizabeth was thankful there were enough chaperones amongst them that Elizabeth was not required to attend every event that she might sit at her canvas and work at her watercolors in the quiet evenings.

She was not sure it was proper to ask to sketch a gentleman, but on the first evening she saw Fitzwilliam she looked into his face and thought again how many times she had attempted to put it on paper and failed and was determined to get him to sit for her. It was not until the third time she saw him that she screwed up her courage enough to ask.

* * *

Fitzwilliam pondered the request the rest of the evening. She had asked him to sit for her; she wished to take his likeness. Was he to read much into this request? He kept a hold of his heart and considered that she was family, a cousin. She might be supposed to be attempting, what with her newly found talent for portraiture, a sketch of each cousin; he supposed she had done his sister and her friends already. It would be a fine thing to send to his Mamma, he supposed. He had not had any likenesses taken of himself for years, his plain face being his excuse. Radbourne had recently sat for a portrait; Fitzwilliam had wondered if there was finally a lady to be wooed if he would do such a thing.

"You seem lost in thought, Fitzwilliam," said his cousin.

"I am," he admitted looking at Darcy. It was a small family party at Darcy House though Elizabeth's aunt and uncle had come.

"I should think you would not have a thing to worry about, your commission is sold; Napoleon vanquished, the Treaty of Paris was signed a few weeks ago and France shall be made to pay for its aggressions. You shall never have to fight again," said Darcy.

"There is always a need for an army, but I am become an old campaigner now, compared to these young bucks with their new commissions and their unstained coats and their energy and attitude," said the soldier, thinking of how infinitely easy it had been to obtain a purchaser for his commission. "I suppose I should be thankful I do not need to become a gray-haired soldier and that Dunchurch has been generous. But Wellington was well into his forties, graying at his temples, what if he chose not to fight?" He was not talking to his cousin anymore but lost in his thoughts again.

"The English, the entire world is thankful that Wellington was there to fight," said Darcy and then he cuffed Fitzwilliam on his arm, the closest he got to any sort of affection in thanking Fitzwilliam for his part, and went to see his wife for a second cup of tea.

Fitzwilliam watched Darcy go. She sat talking with her aunt by the tea things. He had fought for her and for the rascals. At some point at Waterloo, even Elizabeth had eclipsed his Mamma in his sentiments. That sense of hope that had come over him, that there might be some ending for him and Elizabeth, some outcome. He suspected he was the most attached, of all of his siblings, to his Mamma, perhaps it was to do with his place, the third child, or perhaps his nature. He had always been close to her; his brothers were the shadows of Dunchurch.

But it had been images of Elizabeth that kept him alive after Vittoria; hope of seeing her and claiming her after the disaster of Ordal and a certain forlorn hope that kept him fighting at Waterloo where it seemed his survival was simply due to luck, though he could not discount that sense of those invisible little hands clasped around his neck throughout the battle. Should he have to pay himself for Jamie to be trained to some other occupation, he was determined that his nephew, James Ladbroke, should never have to fight.

After the Channel crossing and the nightmare of the logistics of moving his troops, and such wounded men as had been able to move, one wounded lady and a baby, it had not been until late August that he had been able to visit Lady Clara and Ladbroke, and to see the rascals and admire baby Anna-Sophia, now shortened to just Sophia.

To the two oldest, he probably had appeared as a god, with personal tales of the battle of Waterloo and his wound, still raw enough looking to fascinate and disgust the two older boys and Dickie who had followed along with equal relish just seconds behind his older brothers in listening to the far gentler tale Fitzwilliam wove of fighting. Yes, he had seen Wellington on his horse, the famous Copenhagen. Yes, he had seen dead men. Yes, there was blood, but they had won the day.

The uncle and the nephews, along with Walsh, his man, all headed to the park, away from their mamma and any nursery attendants for lessons in saber fighting, using sticks, for a heated afternoon of sport, though Jamie was not an equal participant in the activities.

Cook sent cake for tea to everyone's delight but Nanny's and the four boys were exhausted and full and in the nursery, perhaps a little overheated due to a fire she had lit, and they sat, ready to retire to bed.

Jamie would not sit on his lap again. He considered himself too old, though Fitzwilliam watched as he pushed a chair next to his until they were touching and then climbed up to sit right next to him.

"I am sorry you were hurt again," he said, his voice not so high-pitched as before, but sad.

"I thank you, but it does not hurt me anymore," answered Fitzwilliam looking down again at this one little dark Fitzwilliam amongst all the other fair Ladbrokes.

"I wish to be a gentleman," said Jamie firmly. "I think Ned would be a better soldier, he bested Johnny today, did you see?"

"I think you would make a fine gentleman," answered the uncle with pride, leaving off any discussion of the others. "I am considering becoming one myself;" he looked at the still, small figure nestled now beside him, "selling my commission and leaving the army."

"That is a good idea," and a little hand patted his knee as though a wise man dispensing advice.


	23. Chapter 23

Fitzwilliam thought he knew how to be patient. How to sit still but to have her stare at him so intently was difficult and he would shift his position in his chair and she would cough and he would move back. She did not speak much other than to give him instruction as to how to pose. Then he felt as if he could hear a clock ticking in his head, an interminable sound as he waited for her to sketch him.

"You have moved again," she said as she watched him rub the end of his nose. He quickly put his hand down to rest on the chair arm as she wished him to sit.

"I apologize," and he moved, a slight movement to one side to relieve pressure on one leg. "I do not recall being so bad at sitting. When we sat to wait…" and then he left off because he realized he would speak of battles.

"Yes?" she prompted, putting down her piece of charcoal to look at him fully and with attention as to what he had to say.

"I would speak of battles," he said at last when the silence grew between them, "but I will not relate what I have experienced to you."

"I have heard much from Lydia, Fitzwilliam. We are not all such delicate creatures, meant to be coddled and sheltered from the harsh realities of war; to live only in calm waters. Blood and wounds and war and dying happen to women as well as to men."

"I would that they did not," was his swift reply.

"Yes, I have wished that my impulsive sister had not followed her husband to war. There is much about Lydia I would wish otherwise. And I thank you again for finding her and bringing her home to us. I am thankful Mr. Darcy's letter found you in time," and she smiled wide then, happiness easily read on her face. In her eyes.

"I never received a letter from Darcy," was his surprised reply. She started then, laid her hands in her lap as she sat back from her easel.

"But how did you know to search for her? That she was at Waterloo—that Wickham was dead and she was wounded and stranded?" she cried unable to contemplate his words.

Her distress troubled him and he could not understand her confusion but answered her immediately—

"I ran into Wickham at Ostend, before the battle, and he introduced me to Mrs. Wickham and mentioned her relationship to you. And I saw her right after she was wounded that day; she charged me to find Wickham, I did and saw to his burial," and he continued his story of care for both baby George and for Lydia and of finally bringing them, and a few hundred men, home to England.

"I believe I was on the move so much no letters could find me. It was not until we reached English soil that they began to catch up with me," he concluded.

Elizabeth seemed in shock, her face quite pale throughout his whole tale, and then she covered her eyes with one hand as tears came. The other had a firm grip on the chair. He was at a loss to understand her reaction, her tears. Surely she knew Mrs. Wickham's story, had she not talked to her sister?

She spoke finally through the tears.

"That you did _so_ much for a stranger, Fitzwilliam; I am humbled," and she cried even more then, shielding her eyes from him with one hand, the other hand whitening with its grip on the chair arm. "How much, you did _so much_." He could see how she squeezed her eyes together fighting her emotions.

"She is your sister, Elizabeth," he said.

Her hand came down to cover her mouth and she looked at him then. There was something in the way he had said those five words that expressed entirely how he felt, how much he felt for her and she realized it. The other hand came up to cover her mouth to hold in the huge, gasping breaths, ragged ones which shook her body and the tears flowed ever on, harder, down her cheeks, over the backs of her hands to her lap. She stared at him and wept.

He offered her no relief from her tears. He sat watching her, his own feelings to be read on his face and she finally ran a hand across each cheek to wipe them away.

She took in a deep breath. Her breathing quieted and they looked at each other with calmer aspects.

"The light is not right here. Darcy House sits east-west; I fear I shall not be able to sketch you properly," she said as if the previous fifteen minutes had not occurred.

"I am sorry to hear that; I had hopes to send a portrait, or at least a sketch, to my Mamma." He looked at the window of the room selected for her sketching. It had been adequate for all her other portraits, apparently, but not his. "Perhaps Barker House might have better light? Lady Susanna's house sits north-south," he said.

"Yes, perhaps," she mumbled. "Let us join the others for tea," she said standing and exiting the room.

* * *

Alone in her room that night, Elizabeth thought about Fitzwilliam's story. He had to have so many demands on him as the senior officer of his regiment—he had said that much—he had discussed all the difficulties in moving his men and yet he had shouldered the burden of a lady and a baby, in reality strangers to him, because the lady was her sister, and because he loved her. She contemplated that love, the depth of such a love and could not fathom it. To love someone you know you are not capable of having for she was Darcy's wife, married these two years now. To do something so loving and so sacrificing for it could not have been an easy task .

His own comfort had to have been minimal, basic, during those weeks in the Netherlands. It was not simply that he had money and found a solution; he had made such a sacrifice, the burden of Lydia and the baby. He said he cared for baby George himself for almost two weeks. What did his own men think of such a thing, his fellow officers? It could not have been a secret as the baby and Lydia traveled with them, yet he had to have remained above any talk.

Was her husband being truthful about his letter? That had been their most bitter disagreement, that day. It took an interminably long time for letters to be sent across England, let alone to the continent. She could not doubt that a letter from Darcy had been sent and lost, but she now had to consider that such a letter, sent, perhaps, weeks after the battle might have had little effect. Lydia had been in Antwerp, not at Waterloo or in Brussels; had Fitzwilliam not been there, where he was at that exact moment he might not have been ever found Lydia if he had started searching weeks later even if his duties had afforded him the time. Elizabeth cried over the happy chance the good fortune—the good luck—that Fitzwilliam had met with Wickham, their paths crossed. And that he loved her enough to think of her sister, care for her and her son.

She did not think there was a more worthy man of her acquaintance, even more than her husband. He had likely saved Lydia and baby George's lives; he no doubt saved, as a commander, many others under him in battle and she wished to know how she could thank him. She thought of all the ways she had valued him and wondered that she had not admitted how much she admired him.

She had allowed his service to be a barrier to loving him just as she had allowed Darcy's stiff manners to be a barrier to loving her husband. It was a complex idea she thought as she removed her dressing gown and slipped between sheets warmed with a bed-warmer, that she felt love for two different men at the same time. She had underestimated Darcy and grown to love him; there was much about Darcy that was admirable and which she valued. She had a great respect for her husband. He had done so much for her and continued to provide for her and was a gentle and loving man.

Fitzwilliam was a man whose ideas she had valued from the start but who had proved his worth by his action many times over. She turned to her side in the bed and thought about how she had faltered when she first met him. She had faltered about the idea of loving him. She had thought, argued with herself, it was because he was the son of an Earl and he could not marry her because she was too poor, but she had no confidence in her ability to hope that he would return from war to love her. That she could be patient about seeing him leave and live through the separation. Yet he had survived. He loved her; she was assured of that, by those five words. She was not the type of woman to brook being parted from her husband—she was similar to her sister Lydia in this respect. She would have wanted to follow Fitzwilliam she would have been like Lydia and done whatever she needed to do to be near her husband. But he had left, and she had married Darcy.

* * *

"Elizabeth!" exclaimed Lady Susanna who rose to hug her. "I understand you have a small lighting problem." Lady Susanna was dark and had similar blue-gray eyes like her brother; Miss Clarion and Mrs. Heene stood to curtsey and smile before they all sat down together. Elizabeth had sent a note about her inability to sketch Fitzwilliam and pursued his suggestion of sketching at Barker House.

"I seem to not be able to do your brother any justice," replied Elizabeth.

"He has an ugly mug," laughed Lady Susanna.

"Oh no!" cried Mrs. Heene, "his face has great character. It is plain, perhaps, but all his responsibilities, the great things he has done in life, the battles he has survived, are, I believe, to be read there."

"I agree," said Elizabeth, "which is why I thought a portrait for Countess Dunchurch? But I have failed to even be able to sketch him, so I am appealing to you, to beg of you, to loan me a south-facing room with good light."

"You shall have it, my dear," said Lady Susanna.

"The blue parlor," said Grace Clarion, "it is mostly white, but has blue accents," she explained.

Elizabeth said she thought that would be fitting. She would have risen to go, but Miss Clarion called her back.

"You must hear, it is all over town this morning, Lord Evendon and Miss Greene have married!" she cried.

"I had not heard they were betrothed," said Elizabeth. The others laughed.

"In a way, it is an old story," said Lady Susanna, "but it is a scandal that has reared its head again."

"How is this a scandal?" asked Elizabeth.

"Because of the baby," said Miss Clarion. Elizabeth's attention was fixed on the two women who sat close together near the tea pot. Gossip was one of their favorite occupations; they would have gotten along well with Mrs. Bennet.

"They had a baby, a son, two years ago and wished to marry, but her family disapproved because he had a scandalous reputation as far as young women were concerned and she is, despite the plain family surname, from a wealthy, genteel family. So her father refused to allow it and she was sent off to live with some far-away relative," continued Miss Clarion.

"You would think the baby would be scandal enough," said Elizabeth for whom the story was a little too close to home.

"But once she reached her majority, Lord Evendon came to claim her and the banns were read or they obtained a special license and they were wed. So now the child is no longer a bastard and can be claimed by his father."

"You would wonder that they did not allow them to wed in the first place," said Elizabeth.

"I have long wondered that myself," said Mrs. Heene and took a sip of her tea.

* * *

As before they did not speak. She worked at her charcoal, it squeaked occasionally on the page and she would smile, a half smile, one side of her mouth would rise up and make the most delightful picture for him to gaze at.

He wondered that Darcy did not simply wish to want to sit and stare at all the little nuances of her facial expressions. Her brow contracted in concentration but she would raise the left eyebrow slightly as she thought, considered her spot on the paper. The frustration when a line did not curve on the page as she wished and her lips pursed together, the lower one striking out in the beginnings of a pout. He should love to kiss those lips, especially whenever her frustration was high; they presented such a target and he wished to sooth the irritation from them, bring back that side-ways smile of hers as it always traveled up to her eyes and made those dark eyes sparkle with light and life.

He could tell when she was frustrated even though they were concentrated, fixed on the paper, for her eyes smiled and danced when she was happy. It was, perhaps, what drew him the most to her, that joie de vivre in her eyes, the liveliness to be found—watching her—despite all the demands on her time she pursued drawing; she still kept it up despite being mistress of Pemberley when so many married ladies left off 'keeping up with accomplishments.' It was a passion for her and one not to be denied.

His eyes wandered down her neck. Her dress was practical, concealing, barely any portion of her throat was to be seen yet he contemplated planting kisses there, considered her reaction. Having her eyes on him was having a disastrous consequence on him.

"I believe I have sketched you, Fitzwilliam," she said, interrupting his thoughts and embarrassing him. He blushed.

"I am considering oils and should find an instructor. I wonder how you look in oils," she said.


	24. Chapter 24

Rosings, Easter 1816

Radbourne was to marry. Fitzwilliam kept going over the idea and it seemed incredible to him. Radbourne had said he was seeking a wife but Fitzwilliam thought he would not, at some level, succeed. As if his own struggles in that area, in seeking and wrestling with love were the same with his brother. It had been two years since Richard and Anna-Sophia's tragedy. Had Radbourne decided to marry for love or for position? Had Dunchurch's hints to do his duty been what propelled him to propose to Lady Frederica? Fitzwilliam had not decided—or asked—he had met the lady just once before setting off to Rosings. She was a viscount's daughter, with a decent fortune, not the duke's daughter of last spring, however, but was pretty enough.

"Fitzwilliam!" called Lady Catherine with a more than unusually caustic tone, "where are your manners?"

"I do beg your pardon, my lady," he replied completely unaware of the conversation. He looked at Darcy for some help or relief but his cousin seemed as distracted as he, peering at his watch. He had no hint from that quarter as to what Lady Catherine was discussing.

"Should we review the estate accounts tomorrow with Easton? Darcy has been of no opinion at all on the subject. Where are both your minds tonight? You are a fair amount distracted you two. I should ask what it is in particular that has your attention if Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson were not present."

He agreed to the scheme and vowed to not let his mind wander. Fitzwilliam looked at Cousin Anne who had a book in her hand and seemed off in her own fairy world as was her want. Mrs. Jenkinson was at her embroidery but all ears to the conversation.

"You do not still have that atrocious man for a valet do you: the Irishman? He will cook his accounts and cheat you, you know, it is their way," said his aunt.

"I cannot ask for a more devoted servant, ma'am. We fought beside each other; there is nothing I would not do for any man, any fellow man-at-arms," replied Fitzwilliam.

"Hrmph, you shall one day be sorry, I am sure. You can ill afford to keep him," she replied.

"Ah! We get there at last, what is an old soldier like me to do without his commission. You need not worry about me aunt. I do not have expensive habits. I have no property, no excess of dress. I do not gamble overly much so you need not worry about marrying me off to the next heiress that comes under your nose," he said firmly.

She seemed put out by his words and tackled Darcy on some matter about livestock, some question Fitzwilliam would not be expected to know how to answer. Darcy, however, gave her a rather half-hearted smile, let out a deep breath and then excused himself for the evening, claiming weariness.

* * *

Darcy was more distracted than he had ever seen him, Fitzwilliam saw him checking that watch frequently, pouncing on the post every day with a ferocity never before seen. "There is so much to do, estate business, planning for London and Georgiana's season," he had explained when Fitzwilliam asked. At some point he did become calmer, even happier and when applied to, Darcy said an investment had turned a good profit, though he did not elaborate.

* * *

There was a lot of discussion about Georgiana's season at Rosings. Miss de Bourgh had never been well enough to be presented a fact that rankled Lady Catherine. The last cousin to be presented had been Lady Susanna nine years before so Lady Catherine pestered Darcy with questions about the plans for Georgiana and added a number of suggestions of her own as to what should be done for her niece. Darcy answered as best he could but said most of the details were with Lady Susanna and Elizabeth, his role was to simply pay for it all.

"We are there to support her and be escorts," said Darcy and he looked at Fitzwilliam then.

"I do not doubt she will receive many offers, no doubt someone titled," said Lady Catherine.

"I believe it depends where her heart leads her," said Fitzwilliam.

" _That_ has no bearing," said Lady Catherine.

"It is of the greatest importance," said Fitzwilliam, his voice deepening.

"With her family connections and her fortune she _must_ have a title, marry into the nobility. Why Radbourne is to marry a Viscount's daughter is beyond me when he could have had that Duke's daughter last spring!" cried their aunt.

"I believe he wishes to marry Lady Frederica because he loves her and he did not love Lady Augusta," growled Fitzwilliam and then he knew his brother Radbourne, by instinct, had married because he fell in love.

"This is preposterous! Darcy—what do you think?" Lady Catherine turned to her second nephew who shook his head at the ridiculousness of the entire conversation.

"I will not say yes to some titled Lord for Georgiana just to please you aunt," he replied.

"Well!" she retrieved a handkerchief from some deep place on her person and then waved it around, "well," and seemed as though to speak.

"I do not think you could wish such a thing for dear Georgiana, Mamma," said Miss de Bourgh looking up, "consider how unhappy _you_ have been," and then she looked down at her book.

Lady Catherine fluttered her handkerchief once more and then fainted, or pretended to, slumping gracefully back in her throne-like chair. Mrs. Jenkinson came over with smelling salts to revive her while the three others looked on.

* * *

Fitzwilliam posited that Lady Catherine had become so set in her ways, she was so haughty, so inclined to be rude that she could not say anything anymore without giving offense. At some level he could not blame her for Anne's health must have been an all-consuming concern. Because of it, Miss de Bourgh was never to marry, there would never be suitors in their little edge of the country; no suitors of appropriate station at least that Lady Catherine would ever approve of since Darcy had the audacity to marry Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

She had, his aunt, given him the hint that maybe _he_ ought to marry Anne; and Fitzwilliam had dutifully considered the possibility. But he had known so much grief. He _could_ consider doing his duty, he was a soldier, an old campaigner as he liked to now consider himself; he knew very well how to do his duty. But in marriage he did want happiness and he knew that in marrying Anne de Bourgh he would not achieve that.

During this trip Anne's color was good; her spirits higher than he had ever seen them, her conversation had improved beyond what he had ever heard and there even appeared to be color in her cheeks but he knew it was a false hope. He knew her illness would take her that she would probably not live more than a few more years and he did not think he could handle a marriage where he would be faced with burying a wife shortly after the wedding. And the words of his Mamma came to him that he was to only marry for love and he only truly loved one lady and he could not marry her.

The trip this time was quite interesting. Mrs. Collins was with child and could not handle visits in the evening and claimed illness so it was only Collins who came over at night. It must have been an interesting change to the quiet evenings at Rosings when it had only been the ladies to then suddenly have such a compliment of gentlemen. Mr. Collins had not changed in any way and Fitzwilliam found, more and more, that he could not bear the man and Darcy was just so oddly distracted that their discussions over Port were short and then they would go to join the women to play Whist or Piquet or to converse. Their evenings in the Rosings drawing room were never long. It was truly the most singular visit he ever had to his relations.

His only respite was that he did go to visit the Parsonage in the mornings where he found that Mrs. Collins did welcome him and was not affected by whatever illness kept her home in the evenings. She liked to have her young daughter beside her and as he was well-used to children that first morning when she had called the nursery maid to take Laura, he insisted the child stay behind and they had a pleasant visit.

* * *

He thought there might be sport, at least, with his cousin as he had found in year's past but Darcy continued to be preoccupied. Darcy grumbled about their obligation this year, of having come to Rosings, and he grumbled about the long time away from Pemberley and estate work as if he were now, after his marriage, a true country gentleman. He grumbled about the long stay, a full three weeks, as was normal.

Darcy was also not looking forward to London and the season and any of the particulars of Georgiana's come-out; Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, thought with fondness about it—London—it was the only thing he had to look forward to, to give him some occupation. Five months since selling his commission and Fitzwilliam was at a loss due to the inactivity.

He felt he was more excited to be in London for the season than his cousin because he had to admit he would see Elizabeth. As Georgiana's guardian he could be involved in all the proceedings and it gave him have an excuse to see her, to be around Elizabeth all the time, escort her and Georgiana when Darcy was absent, have an excuse to dance with her.

Whatever opportunity came along became his new hope: the next invitation a ride out or a visit. It was the little things, the next anticipated event that currently kept him occupied, gave him some activity. He could envision it, imagine it in all its possibilities and consider what would happen, how people would speak or react. He had looked forward to this trip to Rosings with a fervor he had never felt for before and been disappointed with Darcy's odd behavior, his aunt so caustic, though finding conversation and amusement with Anne and Mrs. Collins. It was then the next thing, going back to London for Georgiana that was to be his relief. He tried always to stave off thinking of Elizabeth too much.

He gave into a sort of fantasy of hope and happiness, thinking of Elizabeth sometimes, and then, if he allowed it to go too far, terrible images would form. To be together meant that she could no longer be Darcy's wife and he was haunted with images of accidents or disease befalling his cousin. His brother's passing had been so horrible he could not wish an evil end to Darcy. He could not wish death for his cousin to free Elizabeth for him; he could never wish such an end not after seeing so much death in battle. He could not keep, sometimes however, from such an image forming in his mind if he thought too much of her as his own so he tried to keep considering her as Darcy's wife, to keep a proper perspective on the relationship.

* * *

One night, when Anne had retired early and Mrs. Jenkinson had followed, Lady Catherine did tackle her two nephews on topics of a more formidable subject matter.

"Fitzwilliam, are you keeping a mistress? I cannot account otherwise for you not having married by now," she began, eyeing the former soldier with narrowed eyes.

He started, looking at his father's sister with some amount of disgust and refused to discuss the idea.

"I see that you are," she replied, sniffing, "your uncle de Bourgh had a chit in London, no doubt helped to send him to his early grave." Neither men said anything at such a subject and Fitzwilliam looked at Darcy who seemed equally at a loss for words.

"Now, Darcy, is your wife with child yet?" She turned to look with piercing eyes at her other nephew.

"Mrs. Darcy is not so fortunate as to be with child, no," he replied looking everywhere but at his aunt. Both men were considering how to excuse themselves.

"She is no doubt barren, you should have married Anne, could have had an heir off of her by now; and we could have merged the estates as I said, so many times," replied Lady Catherine. Darcy looked shocked that she would speak about her daughter in such terms.

"I married Mrs. Darcy because I love her," said Darcy with great conviction. Fitzwilliam looked at his cousin and felt he could believe it; that the love he had heard his cousin lament for Elizabeth, three years past now in that same house, still beat in that same chest.

* * *

Fitzwilliam thought over his cousin's strong statement, as he sat in his room—having retired early to escape his aunt—and staring once again into a fireplace: "I married Mrs. Darcy because I love her."

Fitzwilliam had no right to continue to love Elizabeth. Darcy loved his wife; they were married; no one could separate them. So said the church and the laws of England. She might care for him in return as much as he loved her but he could not expect anything.

"I should buy an estate, a small one, become a yeoman farmer and work the land with my hands and keep busy every day so my mind has no time to think of her." And he made plans to do just that.


	25. Chapter 25

Pemberley, July 1816

Elizabeth was troubled to find a new housekeeper. Mrs. Reynolds, after more than twenty-five years of service to the Darcy household, wished to retire to live near the sea with her sister. It was the most difficult task Elizabeth had been set as mistress of Pemberley and occupied most of her time.

Catherine came, as usual, to stay for her four week summer visit. She was occupied with Georgiana in visiting friends in the neighborhood and in tasks about Pemberley and in being a companion and friend and Elizabeth did not see much of her sister. Elizabeth was happy that Catherine was so comfortable with her visits to Pemberley. Kitty had, perhaps, fewer friends at home now—she and Mary had never been close—and she really enjoyed Pemberley and the surrounding area.

Elizabeth thought it good for Catherine to come visit. She suspected a lot of the care fell on Catherine's shoulders for Lydia and baby George. Catherine did laugh, as she spoke, of the antics of their nephew Charles and baby Henry though she did not really speak about them overly much. Jane had two sons, Lydia one and yet Elizabeth had not yet had a child. Even Mrs. Collins was expecting a second child now.

* * *

The year, so far, had been a busy one. There had been all the preparations for a long stay in London for Georgiana's presentation at court and formal come-out and then on top of it—such a wedding! Lord Radbourne and Lady Frederica's society wedding. All their time in London it had meant that not a day was free, and Elizabeth would have been lost without Lady Susanna's help. Georgiana had been eager this spring: had risen to do what was required, had a new confidence and sailed through the balls, the fetes, the parties and events as if a great lady born to such a station. It was almost too much for Elizabeth—it had not been a life Elizabeth had never really led.

Georgiana once loosed from her love of George Wickham and no longer haunted by the memories of their ill-fated elopement embraced a new life as though in London she could remake herself. She wove a new role becoming a young, beautiful heiress, much admired. She still had shy moments but the popularity of a dowry of 30,000 pounds gave her a boost she had never known. Georgiana's fortune did make her sought-after and Darcy and the male cousins: Fitzwilliam, the two de Bourgh brothers and some younger Selbournes kept faithful eyes on Georgiana who seemed happily oblivious to the reputations of the men she encountered in London drawing rooms.

Mr. Darcy found himself with far more applications for Georgiana's hand in marriage than he could ever have imagined. He had been looking haggard all that spring with frequent trips home to see to estate business which cropped up and to make a final choice to replace Mr. Hunt in the living in Kympton. And then to be pestered by marriage proposals had made him a little thinner in person and looking a little older. He bore all his responsibilities well, however, refused all of Georgiana's would-be suitors and they finished up the season and came home in early June.

Elizabeth had been glad to have Fitzwilliam to escort her when Darcy was gone for a week at a time to Derbyshire and back. He was a devoted companion by her side, and helped her through the sometimes long and lonely evenings with lively discussions which harkened back to their time at Rosings when they had first met. Overall, Georgiana was happy and held onto her heart, which was perhaps best. Darcy, on his last trip to Derbyshire, came back through Hertfordshire to pick up Catherine and so Kitty had two weeks of a London season to her utter delight before they all returned to Pemberley together.

* * *

It was a gentle evening. Dinner at Pemberley was to be a nice little party with the Stanhopes, the Rev. and Mrs. Worth and his ex-curate, now the vicar for the church at Kympton, Mr. Watson, and the Alport family: Mr. and Mrs. Alport and their son, Robert, former lieutenant, he of the amputated arm.

The gentlemen were not overly long at their Port and when they returned the young men, Mr. Robert Alport and Mr. Watson went to sit with Georgiana and Catherine. They were all good friends, thought Elizabeth, at least Mr. Alport was becoming a good friend with his return to his family after losing his arm at Waterloo. She suggested cards but then blanched as Mr. Alport might have difficulty playing with one hand so as the day had been hot, she suggested a stroll in the gardens.

As soon as the couples had left, Mrs. Stanhope immediately suggested, a little rudely, to Elizabeth that a chaperone was needed for the young people, but Elizabeth replied that the bright light of the moon would ensure no trouble would be had, besides, she added, she would send dour Mr. Darcy after them if they did not return in fifteen minutes.

She wondered that she was no longer thought as a maiden, but as a married woman, playing the role of chaperone, though in this case, since it was her sister—or sisters—Catherine and Georgiana, she was thinking more of their relief from the rather sullen talk that married couples engaged in about neighborhood news. There was much to gossip about.

A memorial to the local fallen men of Waterloo was being planned though where to place it could not be agreed upon. Mrs. Hunt, the late vicar's wife had given birth to a baby after her husband passed away. There were some funds being raised to help her out as she had two other sons besides and no one was sure if she had any other means of support. One of the Bell brothers was said to be overloaded with gambling debts, so had come home to Kympton to live. And Mr. Worth was also raising some money for poor relief as the number of young women with babies in the parish had increased. Apparently local young men were moving west to Birmingham with the prospects of higher pay but leaving sweethearts and their issue behind on the charity of the parish. There was a lot of discussion about this subject.

The young people returned in due time, longer than Mrs. Stanhope would have wished, but with flushed cheeks from the chilling air, despite its being summer, and laughing at being able to get out of the drawing room.

* * *

Darcy stood at the open doorway of the dressing room and watched Elizabeth brush her hair as if she had forgotten her stroke count so continued without end, staring not at herself in the mirror, but at some memory instead. He coughed to announce his presence and she looked up and smiled, her eyes, those eyes that had always enchanted him, smiling at him with warmth.

"It was a pleasant evening, was it not?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, coming up beside her. She stood and looked at him, and touched his arm. He leaned down to kiss her, a gesture she returned. He pulled back then to smile at her.

"Mr. Watson came back in, after the others had left to see me," he said, smiling. She looked at him a little confused. "He asked for Catherine's hand in marriage," he was pleased.

"Mr. Watson!" her surprise was evident.

"They have known each other since Catherine first came to us; they are well acquainted and it is a good match," he said looking at her, surprised by her reaction, "what troubles you?"

"I guess I had not suspected the interest between them. And I had hopes," she paused, a part of her loath to admit such a thing, "there are so many fine gentleman hereabouts, I had hopes she would catch the eye of one of them."

"He is a decent man, Elizabeth. The living at Kympton is a good one, five hundred pounds a year; they would live well enough and she would be near you now, all year." He took her into his arms, "and I will settle as marriage articles a thousand pounds on her for she has become like a sister to me and Georgiana. I have been doubly blessed to have both her and you," and he kissed her, and her hands snaked up under his dressing gown to his nightshirt to clasp him to her.

"You are a decent man, Darcy," she said as she led him to bed.

* * *

Catherine, of course, tackled her as soon as she came down to breakfast to tell her all about Mr. Watson proposing in the rose garden the night before. Georgiana knew all about it. Elizabeth recalled that she had seen them walking arm-in-arm on their way up to bed, whispering back and forth, and she was a little hurt until she thought that Kitty would not have braved knocking at her bedroom door now that she was a married lady, that Catherine might be worried that Mr. Darcy, and rightly so, might be in her chambers.

She also suspected that Georgiana had known all about it with their close confidences since Georgiana and Mr. Alport had apparently separated from Mr. Watson and Catherine to allow Mr. Watson the chance to proclaim himself in the Pemberley rose garden the night before. Not that Mr. Alport had any intentions, poor one-armed gentleman, for Georgiana. He had sold his commission and seemed at a loss as to what to do with himself, though like many others he had received a pension of two year's pay for his services at Waterloo.

Mr. Bennet, of course, had to be formally applied to, though she did not think her father would object particularly if Mr. Darcy, who sanctioned the match, was giving Catherine an additional thousand pounds on top of the thousand Mr. Bennet would give Kitty. The match with Mr. Watson was concluded in a swift amount of time.

In August, Pemberley was descended upon by the entire Bennet family—and the Bingley family for the first time in ages—and it was full of babies and that nursery once again was scrubbed out to properly receive them. And though Mr. Gardiner was only able to come, because of his business, for a few days for the wedding, Mrs. Gardiner and the children were able once again to come for an extended stay. And Elizabeth found perfect contentment in being the mistress of a great estate, to be able to gather her family to her and to be able to find amusements for them. And yet that nursery, so full of children she could not number the exact count, did not contain a Darcy child lying in a cradle.

Catherine was married from Pemberley. The Reverend Worth, Mr. Watson's old master, doing the honors and all the neighborhood rejoiced, both Catherine and Mr. Watson were well respected and loved in the surrounding neighborhoods of Lambton and Kympton.

Lydia came to Pemberley for the first time with little baby George. She had not yet been fitted for a leg and still hobbled on a crutch and occasionally needed the services of a footman when her body grew weary to cart her from one room to another, especially if it involved moving up or down stairs. Someone, half joking, suggested she be introduced to Mr. Robert Alport, since they were both missing limbs and might make an interesting couple. Elizabeth flinched at the suggestion unsure that Lydia was ready to marry again but Lydia did not mourn Mr. Wickham; she did not speak of him anymore. As eager as Lydia had been to follow him to Waterloo because she could not be parted from him and as much as she had shed tears when Lizzy had visited her the past summer; she seemed to be content with her baby and be content to be happy with the life in front of her. She was happy even to flirt a little, though the charms of a widowed nineteen year old with a baby and little money did not hold sway for many gentlemen and Mr. Alport did not find her as charming as was suggested.

Darcy rejoiced in having Bingley in his home at last and they enjoyed many hours of conversation. He dutifully admired Bingley's sons and he grinned with Bingley when he hinted that there might yet be another on its way. Bingley's sons looked exactly like him though he thought it might be perhaps the caps of red hair, just like their father, for their large round heads made them look like any child let alone a Bennet or a Bingley.


	26. Chapter 26

Dunchurch Coombe, August 1816

Darcy loved his wife, he was convinced of that. It would be such an affront to Fitzwilliam's own honor to even consider asking Elizabeth to leave Darcy. Radbourne had done his duty and settled down with Lady Frederica at the family estate; perhaps Fitzwilliam should try, once again to do the same, find a wife. Though his six weeks in London for the season in the spring were not at all fruitful, and if not a wife, he had to find employment for he was at best adrift, at worst he was utterly lost.

* * *

Fitzwilliam was a wanderer. Coming home to the family estate was no longer an act of coming home, a welcoming, Dunchurch Coombe was no longer home. He might retain fond memories of his childhood, but in coming home he felt left out, left behind.

Lord Radbourne, for all the years he had lived happily in London as a bachelor, now was happily settled into married life at the estate—he was just like cousin Darcy, become a country gentleman. He and Dunchurch woke, breakfasted and then rode about the estate discussing all the finer points of its upkeep. It was a club to which Fitzwilliam was not invited.

Fitzwilliam participated in his own sort of club; riding out separately from his father and brother to visit tenants as a sort of means of learning a new trade. It was an effort, a futile one, to pursue some occupation to fill his days. So many tenants kept sheep: land had been enclosed for grazing—and local soil was in many places too gravely for crops—and he would stop and chat about the details of raising sheep with the idea of purchasing land, becoming a yeoman farmer. But sheep were not to be his future. The stupid, smelly creatures were not to be his future. It might be a romantic ideal to consider a dog at his heels and a crook in his hand but the realities were far different and he was persuaded otherwise. Some other tenants grew wheat, a few others barley, and one man had a patch of strawberries in addition to his other crops. Fitzwilliam liked that idea, growing strawberries but then, on reflection, he realized he liked eating them, loved strawberry jam on his toast. It was not a practical crop to raise and to provide him with income, the idea of becoming a yeoman farmer grew dim and distant.

* * *

"Frederica is indisposed today, so it is just you and I, do you mind?" she said as she poured.

"No," he replied waiting for his cup. "It is nice to have you alone."

Neither seemed inclined to talk. He had so little opportunity to speak with his Mamma; she, like Dunchurch, had her own agenda in showing Lady Frederica the ropes of running the household, Dunchurch Coombe Hall, just as his father showed Radbourne the finer points of running the estate. Yet in sitting there, he found he had not much to say to his mother.

"You have seemed quite distracted lately, Edward," said the Countess, "what is on your mind?"

He paused; he had opened up his heart to so few. Radbourne knew, but his brother had offered him little advice though he had listened and even offered his sincere condolences at the whole situation. Fitzwilliam supposed it was a situation one might be considered to mourn over. He also supposed it was not a situation many men found themselves in, and few gentlemen had advice to offer—many more might be inclined to actually condemn him for such feelings. If the moralists and the laws were against him; in fact if society was against him, he should only expect most of his peers to condemn him for loving another man's wife.

"Richard's funeral," he said without thinking. He had begun to tell her then but they had been in the process of grieving for his brother.

"Yes, it is still difficult, to have him gone from us," she replied.

"I spoke of being crippled, of not being able to move forward," he tried to find a way to explain how in two years he was no nearer to unwinding his love for her from his heart, though he had been crippled in so many ways; he had fought at Waterloo, gone off to battle hoping to die and then realizing in the middle of it that he still lived for her; she still occupied his heart that the organ that beat in his chest was no longer his. "I have become a wanderer as a result."

She looked at him; she who knew him longest. "It is not about Richard." It was a statement, not a question and a pained look came over her face then and though he had never seen her cry a tear formed in one eye and ran down a cheek, "your heart is in tumult and pain and I see that it has been wounding to you, more wounding that those physical scars you tell me about, that John and young Ned brag to me about though they have no idea," and her voice trailed off, softer, hurt.

They sat and composed themselves.

"It is the lady to whom you gave your heart; I fear giving up your commission has only given you time to dwell on this. I had hoped in telling Dunchurch to give you Richard's allowance that you would have time to heal, but it was not to be," she said staring at him.

He felt raw and exposed as though his wounds had reopened.

She continued, "does she return your love?"

He made small gestures with his shoulders, his hands, his face, unsure of the extent of Elizabeth's affection for him.

"Will her husband agree to a separation?"

"Darcy loves his wife very much," he answered.

"Darcy!"

He made no other comment.

She sat with her tea cup on its saucer in her lap and looked at him for a long time. "I like Elizabeth very much."

"I am actually quite fond of my cousin Darcy," he replied.

"Edward, I," and she faltered. "I do not know what to say to you. Move forward and heal," though her advice, her voice, was soft and unsure. No one knew what to say to him.

* * *

Before supper he found Walsh and told him to pack up and that they were leaving Dunchurch Coombe Hall in the morning.

"Where shall we go?" asked his man.

"We are to go rambling," replied his master.

"Rambling, sir?"

"Rambling," he replied with a more defiant and definite note.

* * *

They road thirty miles to stay at a small inn that had no more than four rooms, the accommodations were basic, but for two ex-soldiers they were more than adequate and the drink and talk in the public room enough to entertain of an evening.

In the morning their baggage was left behind and Fitzwilliam and his valet cum companion headed west to hike up to the highest point in the county: Ebrington Shoulder. It was no great mountain to climb and was easily surmounted.

"Why are we here?" asked the Irishman when they arrived as the gentle peak, a slope really, that indicated the top of the hill.

"Because we are tramps and have come for the view," replied Fitzwilliam.

"It does not look much different from any of the other points on the way here and could have saved us the hour walk," said Walsh. "And now we have the bother of returning."

"Because we are men in search of adventure," came a different reply.

"There is far more adventure back at the inn, pints of ale," grumbled Walsh.

"Because we are in need of exercise," tried his master.

"Twenty or thirty miles on horseback was sufficient exercise, Sir, if you ask me."

"Because we have nothing else to do with our lives," continued Fitzwilliam.

"I do not understand why you sold your commission, Sir; you are a man of action. We have done naught but wander from house to house or place to place this past year—not that I do not enjoy your family," and he touched his forehead in deference then and turned to look back at the abysmal view as though he could suddenly understand his master.

"Because of a lady," Fitzwilliam tried again in a softer voice.

"There are lots of ladies to be had, Sir." Though his master had surprised him while on the Continent, a mistress _and_ a baby, that was an odd combination to be sure.

"It is not a dalliance I seek, Walsh. A lady has my heart, yet I cannot win hers, so I am running."

His man was thoughtful for a long time while they stood shoulder to shoulder and took in the uninteresting view.

"I believe Sir; you shall forever be running and never be able to escape, because you are actually running from yourself."

* * *

He was at a loss as to what to do to keep himself occupied. He had grown up as a gentleman, knew what a gentleman was supposed to do and yet he had not spent the last twelve years of his life being a man of leisure so he did not feel comfortable in the attempt now. So he traveled, gave in to the wanderlust.

There was something about Walsh's remarks. He could not keep running as he would forever be running. Elizabeth had his heart. He knew where to go find it so he should leave off searching all of England and Scotland and Wales for it. But he limited, as much as possible, being with her. Darcy loved her; she was his wife.

It seemed he and Walsh had traipsed up and down England, on foot as much as he could force the grumbling valet—really a companion—to endure, in search of that adventure. England was beautiful, and he had found many nooks and crannies that appealed to him, but they did not linger in any one place before they set off for another point. He would meet up with another traveler who would say such and such a place is beautiful you must see it and off they would go.

He began to be haunted by images of Darcy dying. As if by loving Elizabeth it would cause some accident to occur to his cousin. In quiet moments an image of his brother, Richard, lying in state would swim before him and then it would change to Darcy and he would see Elizabeth in her blacks distraught, as passionate over the death of her husband as she was about anything else in her life. Sometimes she would turn and wail at him for loving her so profoundly that it had caused Darcy to die and she would never forgive Fitzwilliam. Sometimes she would declare herself freed to come to him. All the scenes were as distressing to him as the entire scenario, his cousin dying, was impossible to imagine or wish for.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading and keeping up with me. Just a reminder I've tagged it tragedy and romance so not all packages get tied up with pretty bows.

I am working on a new one all light and fluff and over-the-top romance to make up for this one; not that this one isn't like a child I adore just as much, like Jamie being the darkling amongst the fair Ladbrokes.


	27. Chapter 27

London, October, 1816

He had spent a fortnight at Dunchurch Coombe. It had been a long time since he had been there but it was no longer his home. He was being chased away, the Dunchurch Estate was not his home, Fitzwilliam House was not his house, he no longer had the army, and he had no wife, no loving arms, and no mistress even, though Aunt Catherine had been convinced otherwise. He was lost. He had to make his own way in the world.

Walsh was not happy with Fitzwilliam and the new accommodations. He and his valet cum companion had moved out of Fitzwilliam House after Radbourne's marriage to a small rented house that was dark and, perhaps, a bit damp in the rooms. He needed so few, actually, that Fitzwilliam did not mind though Walsh was offended at the state of the house. Fitzwilliam thought the house appropriate to a bachelor though if he was ever to marry he _would_ have to find a different place to live, more appropriate to a lady.

* * *

Elizabeth was happy for one reason to be in London that autumn. Darcy had been so kind as to indulge her wish of receiving instruction for painting in oils. A foppish Master came to the house three times a week to yell and scream and fuss at her and her pathetic abilities, or so he said, repeatedly, threatening all the while never to come back. Yet he did and she believed he was secretly pleased with her work. It was not at all a master painter's work, but she was happy to continue with her portraiture work, painting her family and friends now in a different manner.

She painted Darcy over the course of September, and in doing so saw subtle differences in his face, how he had changed, how marriage had changed him. He looked older, there were, perhaps, wrinkles forming by his eyes. His hair was still dark, his face was thinner, more mature; he was still handsome—even more so—and he seemed content with his life: the country gentleman. He did not seem bothered that there was no son and heir yet though it troubled her. They did not speak of it; not that they did not work at the begetting of an heir, though perhaps not with the same enthusiasm as they once had done. Darcy seemed perfectly content with his life. She occasionally assessed whether he was happy and rarely saw signs of any discontent. Estate business kept his mind occupied and he still found pleasure in sport, in riding especially.

Elizabeth did the same with Georgiana who seemed, herself, happy to be a rich, young heiress, a much sought-after young woman, praised for her many traits—whether or not she possessed them—but the praise stroked her vanity. Georgiana proclaimed she wished to be so sought after that her dance cards would be filled a full week before any ball.

Far less often Elizabeth took stock of herself. She was content with the rhythms of her life, especially happy with her new-found talent as an artist. She could not, however, deny her desire to have a child. It was not so much to fulfill her function as mistress of Pemberley and produce a son and heir, but she did wish for a child as she saw her sisters and her friends find happiness in their children.

* * *

They were having a small family dinner and Fitzwilliam had come and since she had the happiness of her little family on her mind, those over which she had influence—and Georgiana had been talking of her current happiness, the devoted attentions of Viscount Milverton—Elizabeth asked after Fitzwilliam how he was doing.

He turned to Elizabeth wondering why she was posing the question. Georgiana, sitting across from him did not wish to allow him to beg off answering and repeated it.

"I find moments of happiness here and there," he said softly.

"You make it seem as though these events are all trials to be born!" laughed Georgiana.

"You seem perfectly happy attending all of these affairs and socializing every evening, dearest Georgiana," declared Fitzwilliam.

"Yes, our life in Derbyshire had been so quiet I find that I quite like all these parties!" she giggled like any other debutante.

He asked, "have you found anyone yet you would consider marrying? How about your beau, Milverton, is he acceptable?" He gave her a quizzical look over his wine glass.

Georgiana pouted and glared at him; as though she was a recalcitrant child who does not want to go bed when she is told; and just sat there between her two guardians knowing that they were all in London only with the idea of her marrying. Finally she said, with a high laugh; "no, whatever are you in London for?"

"I am here because I am seeking a wife," he said in an even-toned voice and set down his glass to look again at her.

Darcy was not surprised or taken back by his answer; he was well-pleased as though it was just a natural thing for his cousin to want to marry, the natural progression for any man to marry. He said words to that effect.

Georgiana was surprised because she had been the object of everyone's attentions in the spring—her feathers and that ridiculous train on her dress to be presented to the Queen; her coming out ball. It had all been for her.

In returning that fall it felt like it still was all for her so to have Fitzwilliam say that his attendance there was not been merely for her sake alone made her think outside of herself, think of somebody else, and made her reflect on it all in a different way and she suddenly considered Fitzwilliam and what it would be like to marry him. She did not really know what sort of man he was or what sort of money he had.

All of the young men she currently considered were all quite young, and beautiful of form and figure. She would only dance with handsome men or only consider men with titles—Aunt Catherine had written to her about that fact—there was no rich match that season, no prize to be won, no Duke's son, though there were a number of titled sons gracing the drawing rooms of London.

She had, in her own small way been chasing after them, but to have Fitzwilliam tell her he was considering marrying was so peculiar; he was so old, he was older than her brother! And yet he had not married. She thought he was never to marry that he was just of that sort, like his sister, Lady Susanna, who was much younger or Miss Clarion who was younger still; that they were all on the shelf.

It did not occur to her that they might want love. And she felt young and foolish and suddenly could not join in the dinner table conversation. His situation would make her consider, over the next month, until she went back to Pemberley what she really wanted from marriage and she would come to realize that it was not just a handsome face and a man who would whisper sweet words in her ear and tell her she was beautiful.

Elizabeth, like Georgiana, felt like she could not join in the dinner table conversation. She had never considered Fitzwilliam marrying; she could never consider who would be appropriate for him. She thought him cut from such a beautiful cloth and then to think of all of the ridiculous women that she came across in the halls and ballrooms of London. There was not any woman who deserved to have him.

She thought of all his small attentions to her this past year. Elizabeth admitted that she was unhappy being in London; she had been a country lady, not one used to coming to town for the seasons. To be suddenly charged with doing so and with chaperoning a young debutante had been difficult. There were many lonely moments; Darcy was gone so often.

And such a young lady, Elizabeth looked at Georgiana who was staring quite blatantly at Fitzwilliam. She had been alternately shy and then bold and then lovesick and now was self-consumed, even conceited, as she worked out who she was and how to make her way in the world. How to grow into womanhood. Georgiana had a ways to go yet and Elizabeth, because she did love her—as Darcy had said he gained a sister in Catherine, she had gained a sister in Georgiana—she supported her need to come to London for the season.

Elizabeth looked at Fitzwilliam again. It had been a difficult year; she would have been happier at home in her own set of rooms painting, or still finding enjoyment in her music. Her most trying moments since Easter had always been made easier because he had stood by her. Even Darcy had slipped away home but it was Fitzwilliam who had stood by her elbow through every late night event, sitting and talking with her until dawn broke as Georgiana danced, along with every other young debutante, until the proverbial wee hours of the morning.

She admitted then that it would be difficult to consider his loving someone else after he had admitted to loving her even if he had not declared himself openly.

* * *

In November he turned thirty-three, an event he noted by drinking so much his behavior was actually commented upon. He cared not for anyone else's opinion so it mattered little.

Richard, that most beloved brother had been thirty-three when he had died and a certain depression took a hold of him as he summed up what he had done, the measure of his life; certainly not a poor summary in all, but he had hooded eyes, a shortened outlook in considering what the sum of his next thirty-three years would be, even the next three years or the next three months or the next three days. How was he to keep going?

Each day he got up, noted the sun had risen again, submitted to Walsh's administrations on his cheeks, dressed, gratefully ate whatever his Mrs. Keep had left him and found some sort of employment for the day. But he wondered that such a lackadaisical life would actually suit him.

Most of his friends were soldiers, busy with their work, not gentleman, carefree, with time for sport, for Life, with a capital L, which was so often envied by others. He at least could read and tackled the Fitzwilliam House library with some passion as Foote, the butler, let him sneak in though neither Radbourne nor Dunchurch were in residence. He was, however, family and could borrow books at will. It was not the largest of libraries and he would soon be through all the volumes.

* * *

He had in a moment of intimacy revealed his heart to his brother Radbourne and then there had been the disappointment of going back to Dunchurch Coombe Hall that was no longer home as Radbourne and Lady Frederica were making it a home for themselves and hopefully for their children. But Fitzwilliam had no friends to whom he had told his tale about his lost heart, that it was gone, that she was unattainable. He wondered then about telling his sisters and he considered sharing his troubles with them. He thought about his visits to Lady Clara. While he enjoyed them and he enjoyed Ladbroke's conversation and the sport to be had when he went to Brooke Hall, it was always the rascals that drew him there and both Clara and Ladbroke knew that, the rascals would themselves not understand that they were not the principle reason and focus for his visits. Lady Clara was so busy with her brood and her life that she most likely would have no time for him to care to listen to his sad tale.

But he did reach out to Susanna and went to visit her thinking of sharing his story but was brought up short when he sat down to tea with Mrs. Heene and Grace Clarion sitting there as well and they sat and talked of gossip and other news. Susanna was happy with her life, the life she has chosen and created for herself. She never seemed inclined to ask about his happiness to any intimate degree and so he felt lost.

He had nothing. He had reached the point where there was not even family left to him. No family left who would talk to him. None left for him and if it was not for his sense of duty—and he had a strong sense of duty—that obligation to visit Rosings at Easter and to be a guardian to Georgiana, he truly would be gone.


	28. Chapter 28

London, Christmas 1816

He dutifully had come to support Georgiana in the fall. He tried his hand at doing the same as she: seeking a spouse but as with his travels up and down the country he discovered he was seeking something he knew he could not find.

Friends took him to hand, new acquaintances, and he tried his hand at gambling which amused him on some evenings if he was not dancing attendance as a guardian. He wondered what Lady Catherine would think of him sitting at card tables laying down sums of money without true thought to winning or losing. Other friends would attempt to entice him to the brothels that lay in such close proximity to all the men's clubs. It might make for an amusing evening, he thought, but his hopes were of a more domestic inclination, he thought of a house, he thought of children of his own and a single lady gracing his bed for an era and not for a single night.

* * *

A letter lay inviting her to open it at the breakfast table. Darcy was gone already and Georgiana had learned, while in London, to sleep in late. Jane's letters were always welcome and Elizabeth tackled it before even touching her food.

Her sister's letters were always a picture of domestic happiness and this one was no exception. It was always Jane's way to compose a letter over many days so it was not until the middle section that she imparted some most interesting news.

"Lydia has married again. She ran off to Scotland—for real this time—with an officer or an enlisted man. We are not sure which!" Jane then unfolded yet another tale of impetuous Lydia who had left baby George with Mrs. Bennet, which meant George was shuffled off to the nurse maids at Netherfield Hall, to go visit some acquaintance for a fortnight in Wickham's old regiment which was stationed again in Newcastle. She met a Mr. Smith and they ran off to Scotland to marry.

"We are not sure if he is even an officer; she has not stated his rank in the two letters we have received from her. They are due here at Christmas and I have hopes he will be a good father to baby George and treat Lydia well."

Elizabeth laid the letter down and considered that all of their hopes that Lydia would grow into some sense had yet to be proved. After all the trials in her life, Lydia was still impetuous and fearless. If she fell in love she was to marry, no matter what the cost and without hesitation.

* * *

It was to be a regiment of the foot reunion, of sort, this masquerade. There were no officers of his own regiment surviving after Waterloo besides Mr. Barry who had moved overseas, but he did find comradery with other officers of other regiments and was encouraged to attend. That officers so used to appearing identical, decked out in their red coats would be wild to appear, hidden behind masks or disguised in costume seemed odd to some, but Fitzwilliam agreed to go.

He had no family in town besides Lady Susanna who was quiet with her social obligations, as though her sponsorship of Miss Darcy had been enough for her that year so she chose to not pursue any other obligations in December.

Mrs. Evans, the hostess, was not known to him; his invitation had been obtained by a sort of proxy through another officer. Her house was large, the outside well-lit and it was obvious to any on the streets outside what was occurring within should they wish to thrown on a cape and domino and join in be they invited or not.

The inside of the home was less well lit, candles having already burned out in places when Fitzwilliam arrived to find laughter and smoke and music assault him. He recognized few people, disguised as everyone was, though it was easy to recognize the activities. There was dancing and conversation, gambling and cards, the supper table seemed still well seated with many eating and drinking, and in dark corners there was a certain amount of illicit behavior. He began to wonder at the nature of the party and the reputation of the hostess.

A drink was handed to him and he found a seat at the card tables and played for a lost amount of time. New glasses of drink appeared next to him and he enjoyed the gaming and the deep laughter of the men at the tables, all army men speaking in turns of battles. Most had fought in the Americas; he could find none that had seen action on the Peninsula at this table or the next. Still, the wine was decent; his hands sufficient to keep him at his seat and the talk and sense of comradery fed some part of him that needed it.

At some point he looked through the haze of the cigar smoke and noticed the circle of women on the outer edges of the table; at another table the card playing was hampered by the woman all standing around the men, one with her arms even around a man's neck. Fitzwilliam did not at all suspect such were the actions of a married woman to a man whose form she explored.

High-pitched laughter brought him back to his own table as a petite figure with a low décolletage—though with not much to show—came to stand beside the man opposite him. Her mask had small ears like a cats and her hair was tawny and golden, her dress perhaps meant to give that illusion though the mask was the only nod to the masquerade theme. His opponent reached out a hand as if knowing she was there.

They all had companions then; he could sense a body behind him. A tentative hand ran across the backs of his shoulders, rubbed back and forth between his shoulder blades. It was one thing to never seek out such company, another to ignore it when a hand ran up to touch his neck and on to run through his hair. Hands came to wrap around him, a curvaceous body pressed against him and his mind was distracted from his card hand. The game ended soon after, his companion was indeed curvaceous, fair and plump and felt a welcome distraction and he lost himself in her caresses until he was brought up short when she whispered, "four shillings," in his ear.

He was drunk but not so drunk to not be a master of himself and a small part of him stilled inside but he nodded his head and said yes under her kisses. In his house, in his bed, he lost himself in her curves and caresses and forgot that his reunion had not been what it purported to be, he had seen no one he knew and the masquerade party more of a licentious bacchanal.

He woke alone. Walsh answered his summons and a hesitant query after his guest revealed she had left in the middle of the night complaining to his valet about the damp and the cold of the room.

"Did you pay her?" asked the master.

"She asked for six shillings," answered Walsh.

"We agreed to four," said Fitzwilliam pulling on a dressing gown and ruffling his hair with his fingers.

"I offered her half, three, and she took it," said Walsh. "I have water being drawn for a bath."

Sitting in his bath, Fitzwilliam thought that it was indicative of his luck that even a prostitute would not spend the night.


	29. Chapter 29

Northamptonshire, February 1817

Mr. Bingley had bought an estate at last. There were hard pressed to move in a short amount of time as they wished to have the family settled before Mrs. Bingley was to have her lying-in with the next child though they also wished to have their last Christmas at Netherfield Hall to be near Mr. and Mrs. Bennet and Mary so it was decided that they would move houses in the New Year. They could not have moved sooner—though the estate had been purchased and in Mr. Bingley's name for many months—for Mrs. Bingley had, like with the other pregnancies, been exceedingly ill and this one seemed particularly hard on her. Catherine had been, apparently, a welcome helpmate but with her gone, sister Mary was a poor substitute.

So in January the Bingleys moved to Welford Hall. Both Elizabeth and Darcy were pleased as they were far closer, just over a day's travel away. Elizabeth was to come for an extended stay at Welford, and to help Jane get settled. This was especially needed as Mary, who had initially agreed to come for a number of months, now seemed, with no explanation, to be hesitant to stay longer than a fortnight. It could be supposed that because she was such a private person and enjoyed her pursuits—her reading, her philosophical commentary and writing, and her daily performance on the pianoforte—that there would be too much required of her that would interrupt her routine; especially with a new baby. The Bingleys did not know what type of help could be had in the new village though they would be bringing a number of servants with them. Elizabeth's presence was especially welcome.

Elizabeth bid farewell to her husband and Georgiana and took their carriage to Welford Hall. She was shocked to see the size of Jane's belly. While she had seen many women over the years with child it was something different when it happened to be her own sister whose form she knew in such minute detail and she laughed when she went to hug her sister and saw that she could not get her arms around Jane and Jane laughed with her and said, "he is big, is he not? I believe he shall be larger than his brothers."

And when they were finally settled and Elizabeth had changed, she could inquire, "are you happy Jane? Truly happy?"

"Dearest Lizzy, of course I am happy. This is all I have dreamed of, and now that we have a house and an estate of our own, what more could I wish for?" replied Jane with her sweetest smile.

Elizabeth could see that it was true. All of Jane's thoughts on happiness were met with her domestic comforts in house, home and children. They spoke of home and its changing nature, Mary being the only daughter left at home now and so called upon to be at the beck and call of Mrs. Bennet. Jane talked of Lydia, now Mrs. Smith, and her new husband, for they had come at Christmas and he was at least an ensign. He was far older than anyone had thought. They had expected poor, foolish Lydia to marry a charming young man again but he was past thirty, a widower with no children and did seem as if he would care for their sister. He was handsome, Jane owned; she had to admit to that.

Jane spoke with a little jealousy that Catherine lived so close and Elizabeth reflexed that she and Catherine had grown close; and that she and Jane had grown apart. "She is just far enough away that I actually do not see her all too often, Jane dearest. I do not see her at church or run into her on a market day. I am no horsewoman so I have to go to the bother of ordering a carriage if I wish to see her, you know," she placated her oldest, and still loved sister.

There were baby clothes to sew when there were quiet moments but quiet moments with two little children were few and far between. There was still so much of the new house that needed to be settled. No one quite had a sense of how the rooms were to be used, a fact which likely required some time and planning. Which rooms were to be used for which function and at what time of day or at what season of the year. There was decorating to be imagined. None of which Elizabeth had to do with Pemberley whose rhythms and uses had been well known.

She delighted in the quiet times with her nephews, Little Charles who was no longer a baby and baby Henry who was doing his best to attempt to walk, clinging onto anything to keep upright to follow around after his brother. Lizzy had always felt that she liked children once they were older and could converse with her and was not so fond of them when they were so small, and wet. But there was something about quiet mornings and in simply watching her nephews play that made her feel sad that she had not yet known that delight, a child of her own.

But her weeks at Welford Hall went by quickly, Elizabeth did not miss Pemberley, but she did miss her small little family and wondered how Catherine and Mr. Watson fared. It had been pleasing she owned to have a sister so near. She supposed Darcy kept busy as was his want and that Georgiana was planning her second season in London.

* * *

They had not spoken of it, Jane was not entirely sure when this baby was to come. Elizabeth had obligations to return home for they were to go to London again for the season and Darcy needed to go to Rosings as he did every year at Easter to his aunt, but there was a large desire on both the sisters' parts for Elizabeth to be there for the confinement. She had plans already to return to Pemberley: Darcy had written to her—for she had the traveling coach—and her time at Welford Hall was closing when she was called to her sister's side after a long morning walk. Mrs. Bingley's laying-in room was not her own bed chamber but another specific room and the midwife was there already. She was surprised because she found her sister not in her bed but pacing the room though obviously in pain, her arm supported by the midwife.

Jane explained between bouts of pain that she had suffered some light contractions through the night and had been sure the baby was to come that morning and it happened all so quickly while Lizzy had been out walking. It was Jane's third child, and when Mrs. Calke checked Mrs. Bingley, she said, indeed that the baby should come. The midwife had a birthing chair, and while Elizabeth supported her, holding her shoulders, Mrs. Calke delivered of Mrs. Bingley her third son. Elizabeth was amazed at how tiny the babe was in Mrs. Calke's arms and then that small bundle was placed in her own arms and the longing in her became a profound one, tugging not just at her heart, but her chest, her womb, at her entire being.

She thought of her own barrenness and wondered that Jane and Lydia and even Catherine had no trouble conceiving a child—for Kitty was due in mid-summer—but it was a joy to be denied to her.


	30. Chapter 30

London, May 1817

He had this idea to move to Nassau, in the West Indies. Mr. Barry, that ensign from Waterloo, the only other remaining officer from his regiment, had taken his pension—the two years' pay allotted to each Waterloo veteran—and moved there. He had become a farmer in cotton with a small plantation. Fitzwilliam daydreamed through the spring, as he moved through the glittering rooms of the elite of London society of being on some small island in the sun. He had recalled how that had felt on his skin as he had walked to Tarragona back when he was in Spain, how he had rejoiced in that feeling despite the difficulties he had faced. So he considered purchasing a small plantation and growing cotton, letting the sun darken his skin and only hearing of his family once or thrice a year via letters.

Anne was not well and his aunt was intolerable and the only high point at Rosings that year was found in a certain friendship in his visits to Mrs. Collins and her daughters. Mr. Collins was one of those men who never saw beyond the end of their noses and Fitzwilliam felt sorry for Mrs. Collins, her daughters were lovely and a treasure. He played with Laura and Claudia just as he did with his own nephews and niece. Collins seemed to care little for his own children. Fitzwilliam wondered if that would be different had they been boys.

He searched but could not find a lady that thrilled him as Elizabeth did. His and Elizabeth's children would be beautiful and intelligent and he would not miss a day of their lives. Fitzwilliam mused how much he liked children, how he would love to be a father—he would play with them; they would be both his employment and his enjoyment—until he was devastated to realize that would not ever happen. Then sorrow would overwhelm him; she was Darcy's wife. Set to bear Darcy children and such imagings should be beyond him. Still sometimes when he was at his happiest and imaging Elizabeth as his own he would think suddenly of his cousin, dead, lying in state, his death due to some accident and she was free to be his own. Then he would crumple in despair; drink whatever was at hand to chase such an image away.

His separation from his family the past year, realizing he was losing touch and any importance with his siblings had created a hole which made thoughts of a son or daughter of his own more profound. To have his own small family plagued him though he was devoted, always, to his nephew Jamie.

His sense of duty meant he felt obliged to be a guardian to Georgiana until her marriage; _she_ showed no indication of giving her heart to anyone though this was her second season. Fitzwilliam pondered whether he could leave the responsibilities of seeing Georgiana wed to Darcy, but his cousin seemed to be excessively busy. Even before his marriage Darcy had never cared overly much for London. He was more often off visiting friends than in London for previous seasons, but since his marriage he seemed to care not at all for the great city. His estate plans took precedence almost over his guardianship and obligations to his sister—he had many plans for improvements to Pemberley, additional land to purchase, field enclosures, modernizations and there were always unexpected issues that cropped up. He would be in town for a fortnight and then return to Derbyshire for almost an equal amount of time before coming back and showing his handsome face at a party just when they had despaired of seeing him.

Fitzwilliam still felt at a loss, wanting more to his day, more action, more activity, _employment_ though he was so often with Elizabeth and Georgiana at some social venue. That correspondence with Mr. Barry always sat topmost on his desk at his meager bachelor lodgings; Walsh knew not to touch the letters. Fitzwilliam thought of sun on his face and wind on his open shirt front and walking through a cotton field and of it somehow bringing him happiness. He was a distracted companion for a while, almost as distracted as Darcy was all the time that May in London, thinking of plans for that plantation in Nassau or on some island, some small, private island of his own. He thought of the tales of pirates from one hundred years past that had swarmed through the West Indies and considered it a more exciting life than evening after evening with his hand on Elizabeth's arm and moping after her like a lovesick youth. He would be gone forever from England, never to return, never to see Elizabeth again, but also not to be haunted by her presence, by her smile, by her eyes.

* * *

"I am considering going abroad," he said.

"You are not going on a trip?" she said. "You would have thought that with all of your campaigning it would have been enough travels for a lifetime." It was a ball that evening, and a crush of people as they stood and watched the dancers.

"No," he said. "I am considering moving abroad."

She had no notion if he were teasing or not.

"A former officer of mine from Waterloo has taken his pension and moved to warmer climes, to the West Indies," he explained.

"The West Indies," she did speak up then, "so far!" And she put a hand out to him, on his sleeve.

"He has taken up cotton farming."

"Farming! Are you to become a yeoman gentleman, moving about in your own fields?" She chose to respond with a light air.

"Something like that. Mr. Barry assures me that the crop yield has been excellent and so long as ladies want muslin for their gowns there will be a need for cotton, it should a fine crop to grow," his eyebrows raised as he smiled.

She happened to be wearing silk that evening, and looked down at her gown and she laughed. They laughed together.

"He assures me that the weather is excellent, even better than Spain. I quite enjoyed the warmer weather there," his voice was light.

"Not the fighting," she asserted.

"No," he answered quickly and another conversation between them was remembered, "not the fighting. It should give me employment, something to do, for I am certainly at odds here."

"You do not like being a gentleman, a man of leisure." As with his mother she knew him, it was a statement, not a question.

"I have been used to activity since leaving school, used to daily activity. I have found myself in want of employment; it is true, since I have sold my commission." She was thoughtful and did not reply to him. "I have obligations still. I am guardian to Georgiana."

She still made no remark. The dancers were right in front of them, it was a crowded room, and they watched for a while.

"I am considering Nassau or some other small island. Perhaps I should become a pirate?" he grinned.

"You do not mean to really go!" She thought that he just been making conversation and looked up at him losing some of the momentum of their banter. He raised an eyebrow and grinned down at her.

"Do not you think that if I let my beard grow I should make a good pirate? I certainly have the scars for it." He thumped at his chest.

"Scars," she said faintly and her eyes had a look of concern, her cheeks whitened at the idea, and then his face fell as the playfulness of their conversation died.

"I do not wish, I have never wished to share my battle experiences with you," he soothed.

"I have said before that it is just as easy for women to be scarred and wounded as it is for men. I do wish you would share a little, some small part with me of what you experienced." Her hand was still there, warm, pressing to him. He thought of Moor pressing against his saber wounds at Vittoria, the faceless Elizabeth who had helped Moor in binding all those wounds, the nameless woman who had crafted his sling at Waterloo, relieving his pain.

He looked at her, her eyes, her whole being, how sincere was her countenance; then he looked out at the room. Georgiana was still dancing, Miss Clarion was on the arm of some young gentleman ready to join a set, Mrs. Heene and Lady Susanna had a keen eye on both of them and he looked back at her.

"Surviving war is dumb luck, surviving a battle is dumb luck, it is all down to dumb luck," he swallowed. "Good training plays a part because you rely on your fellow officers, you rely on having trained your men that they may obey your orders and that together you are a team," he drew a breath, "and that the strength, the sum of all of you together can overcome the enemy. And though you may have raw and untested men you may also have skilled men," he glanced at her for a second, "and though you may have men who balk in battle you may have others who you think will never be able to fight yet they rise to the occasion in a most noble way," his voice was dangerously soft. She slipped her hand beneath his arm and moved closer, held him tight.

"I have saber cut on an arm I got in my first battle just after first receiving my commission, it is but a small nick on my arm and yet it bothered me so much, that I would be so marked that I could not even survive my first battle without a wound. But I went for a long time after that; I saw men fall around me and was yet left standing. It is not so much musket fire as it is artillery fire you need to worry about." He reached across his chest over to find her hand and clasp it.

"My worst wounds were at Vittoria, I fought under Wellington then but I did not see much of that day or fighting. It was such a triumph for our forces, but my chest was cut up and blow up and it is a mass of scars." She was pale but she was listening.

"But that day we won, even though I was wounded, but sometimes," his voice was growing faint, "it is the battles that we lose that are more important, more poignant," and he was lost then in memories and he forgot his audience. "It is the battles that we lose that we remember, so it was the battle, it was _Ordal_ , where they almost buried me alive afterwards," and then she gasped and he looked at her and he realized what he had said, "I do not mean to frighten you. We were defeated, Suchet came upon us, we had not posted sentries that night, and he snuck up on us and caught us by surprise. And I was separated and then knocked in the head and was listed as missing."

"I recall," she whispered.

"And I lived for you," he said his voice dense with emotion, love, despair, a motivation, lust and thirst all at once. "I woke from a fall, a blow or knock to my head, stripped of everything but my thoughts and my prayers and they were all for you."

She was paler still.

"I walked out of the wilderness to the sea to find my troops had left me behind and I walked with barely any clothes on my back; I walked thirty miles to meet my regiment so that I could return; it was for you that I lived," his voice caught in his throat as he was looking out at the company of dancers and he could not look at her as he spoke, as he told her how he felt but he clasped her hand in his, could feel the warmth of her touch even through the gloves.

"I meant to come back and to declare myself only to find that Darcy had succeeded a second time." And he stood there and watched the glittering lights, the candles, the candelabra, the mirrored sconces on the walls casting light on the ladies in their white dresses and the men in their dark coats, the sounds of merriment everywhere. He felt only despair again. It was all an illusion before him, a play, it would end and he would go home to his dark and damp house. Alone.

"You are scarred in more ways than one," her hand tightened in his. "I have admired you Fitzwilliam, since I first met you. You have never failed me, never faltered. It is perhaps I who have wavered in considering you." Her voice held tears. "Back at Rosings that first year I valued you more than Darcy—I have never found fault with you." She pulled her hand free to run it press it to her cheeks as though to calm herself before she let her arms hang at her sides. "Oh! That we had one more day then."

He thought back to that time, all luck and timing and thought of the unfairness of it.

"However I was weak," she put her hand out to him again. That they were in a ballroom mattered not, no one attended them. "I do not believe then I could have fathomed being an officer's wife—to see you go away from me to say goodbye as you went to war. That I could not have done."

"I did not love Darcy then," he did not want to hear about Darcy but it was, perhaps, inevitable. There was no avoiding it. "My respect and esteem for my husband has grown as I realized what a valuable man he was despite his discourtesies but you were _always_ valuable to me," she declared.

"That we had one more day at Rosings, dumb luck," he growled.

"It is odd that there are two such worthy gentleman in my life," she said. He did not want her to be fair. He did not wish her to choose to see them both equally. He wanted her to realize her regrets and declare herself to him. "I believe I love you both, Fitzwilliam," she whispered.

She did not say she only loved him; she said she loved them both. She was, however, married to Darcy. There was no response to that.


	31. Chapter 31

Pemberley, July, 1817

The nation was excited about the news that Princess Charlotte—the Princess of Wales—was with child and to give birth in the fall. Many had looked at the King and the Regent with despair. The King and the Queen were shut off in Windsor and distant, so inaccessible. The Regent and his royal brothers were so wild and licentious in their manner. But everyone loved Princess Charlotte; she was the people's princess. And so many looked forward to seeing what her reign on the English throne would look like, what prosperity it and her descendants would bring to England.

* * *

Kitty was delivered of a child a week after Mrs. Worth was delivered of a daughter, a fact that all the neighbors in Kympton and Lambton rejoiced over. There was some discussion over the choosing of the name Septimus for Mr. and Mrs. Watson's son when Mr. and Mrs. Worth had chosen the much more sensible name of Constance for their daughter. But it was a happy point in a summer that seemed to be exceedingly cold. It never warmed up to match anyone's expectations of what a summer day should feel like and Elizabeth and Darcy stood as godparents to their nephew at his christening.

Elizabeth, as she stood there with her prayer book in hand, rather than feeling cheated that another sister had been blessed with child—and with a son as that—felt that it was simply not a blessing she was going to be denied.

* * *

There was news from Longbourn. Mary was to marry Mr. Crockford their Uncle Philips' clerk. He was the junior clerk, not the senior. Mr. Lees was set to inherit the business—Uncle Philips had no children, no son—and many wondered that she had not, plain-faced daughter and the last Bennet to be married, set her sights on the far brighter prospects of Mr. Lees. But Maria Lucas wrote Elizabeth—of all the unexpected correspondents—that Mary had actually fallen in love with Mr. Crockford though Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips had tried hard to persuade Mary otherwise. Mary had a romantic heart behind those spectacles after all.

Her reluctance to come to Welford Hall was now all explained as Mr. Crockford had been courting her all the while Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips had been pushing her in tearful desperation towards Mr. Lees. There would not be a great deal of money but "there will be a great deal of happiness" Mary had declared.

Elizabeth was again surprised by a sister and traveled, a very short trip, to Longbourn for the wedding in August. As a wedding present, she sent her sister a pianoforte; Mary had been the only other Bennet sister who had played and it was unlikely she would ever be able to afford one of her own.


	32. Chapter 32

Brooke Hall, August 1817

The boys had always been impressed with the dagger that Uncle Ned kept in his boots, a fact that John said he would emulate when he went away to school in a year. Fitzwilliam would argue with him, but left off, that was not his role though he would put a word in Ladbroke's ear about John's intentions. A boy at Eton with a dagger in his boot could be expelled; it was not a matter of simply preventing his being mischievous.

Fitzwilliam and his nephews were out in the park playing at sport. Dickie insisted that Sophia come too, a fact to which the two oldest protested loudly against, but Fitzwilliam allowed it though a nursery maid had to be brought along a point that rankled John and young Ned.

"She's not to do any fighting," said John, "she can only watch," and Fitzwilliam assumed that would be about the extent of her participation as she was only two. It was probably the extent of Dickie's participation as he still had baby fat and was clumsy and more inclined to tripping over his feet than to learning sword play.

Walsh helped him to strip twigs from appropriate-sized sticks and they played, as they so often did, through the long afternoon. Fitzwilliam supposed he was upsetting some routine or lessons, particularly for the older three boys, but it was a privilege he liked to wield, now and again; to show up and be so loved to be pounced on and to play with his nephews and now his niece.

John liked to challenge all of his brothers; often forgetting or leaving off the salute before they began their combat as it gave him a second or two's head-start. Fitzwilliam would admonish him about that but John did not listen. John had swooped in under young Ned's guard and pinned him in a quick match because he had not bowed and Fitzwilliam saw Jamie shaking his head.

"He is not a gentleman, is he?" commented Jamie.

"No," agreed Fitzwilliam, "he is young and simply likes to win. When he goes to school he will learn more about his place in the world." Fitzwilliam recalled that Radbourne had been equally arrogant when they were all at home together which was why he was comrades with his brother Richard: they had often taken sides against their older brother.

Sophia loved, like Dickie, simply being part of the group but she napped as the day wore on, on a large rug spread out by the nursery maid who dozed as well. The boys kept up their energetic fighting, taking turns sparing with different opponents, sometimes taking on their uncle, or Walsh who delighted in them just as much. Jamie was timid in his fighting at best, but he was only seven and Fitzwilliam did not expect him to outshine his older brothers in skills or strength.

The afternoon was getting on and he was considering returning the children to the nursery though he was sure the boys would protest. He watched them at their sport; they were tired now, getting clumsy in their movements though still enjoying the sport. John and young Ned clashed with wilder and wilder swings and loud voices calling as if pirates at battle now instead of learning true sword play. Even Walsh stood and watched them swinging their sticks. And then Sophia was there, underfoot, having woken from her nap and with quick little footsteps suddenly at the center of the play eager to join. The nursemaid was yards behind her in chase, but the swinging sticks made her slow even more.

Fitzwilliam dove for his little niece, catching her in his hands and pulling her to his chest as he rolled and landed on the ground, but as he looked up, Jamie was above him, wielding his stick against his two brothers. With one movement he disarmed Ned, whose stick flew wild, and in another he rapped John on the knuckles causing his eldest brother to drop his own weapon in shock and pain.

"You are not paying attention you wild men!" scolded Jamie standing in front of his brothers, his stick now held loosely, not up in triumph. "Sophia almost got hurt."

"You villain! My hand hurts!" roared John trying not to cry, two of the knuckles bled. Ned seemed flabbergasted at being bested by Jamie whom he had easily beaten all afternoon.

Fitzwilliam stood up with a squirming Sophia who did not understand her danger. He saw Lady Clara watching them.

"Jamie, you are…" but John held his tongue when he noticed his mother, his language curbed from letting loose even courser words.

Lady Clara looked from John to Jamie who still held his stick loosely in his hand.

"Jamie, please hand me your sword," and she held her hand out straight and firm and he surrendered it quietly. "Please kneel," she said firmly, and John looked on with a light of triumph in his eyes at Jamie being punished for hurting him.

Jamie dutifully kneeled without saying a word. He stared straight forward and held his shoulders up straight, his eyes found some distant point of focus. Rather than walking behind him to cane him, his mother stood in front of him. She brought the sword stick down with a gentle touch onto his left shoulder. "I dub thee once," she moved the sword up straight into the air and brought it down onto his right shoulder. "I dub thee twice," she brought it again straight up into the air and once again gingerly touched it onto his left shoulder and let it to rest there.

"I dub thee, knight." She could not conceal her smile from him then. "Arise, Sir James," and she removed the stick then and reached down to pull him up. She was tempted to hug him, but resisted.

"Do we have a belt for our knight?" She looked at her brother and Walsh. Walsh cut the drawstring from a knapsack and handed it to Lady Clara who wrapped it around her young son and girded his stick sword on him as any knight in time has had done to him.

"Do we have spurs for our knight?" she called out, Ned and Dickie were all eyes for her ceremony but John looked sour and upset. Fitzwilliam and Walsh searched among their items for a few minutes before coming up empty handed and the game seemed to end there until James Ladbroke's uncle slapped his thigh and looked at his sister with a serious look.

"I do," and he reached down into the depth of his boot and removed his one remaining souvenir from Spain: his boot knife. He walked forward at a solemn pace, the blade held flat along his stretched out palms. "Your spurs, good sir knight," and he bowed to his nephew.

Lady Clara took the knife gingerly from her brother's hand; she was hesitant he could tell. The game had become serious, but of her three oldest sons, Jamie would treasure the knife and not use it unwisely. She turned to Jamie and held it to him.

"Your spurs, sir," and Sir James took it with one small fist and two wide eyes and held it before him, inspecting uncle Ned's battle-nicked boot knife.

"That should be mine!" cried John sourly.

"You did not earn it," said Fitzwilliam.

"Mamma, knight me!" cried John.

"You need to earn your belt, your sword and your spurs, John," said Lady Clara.

"I am Sir John!" he replied and he put his hands on his hips to glare at the assembled company.

"Perhaps more like bad Prince John," said his mother to him in a quiet tone and his hands dropped to his sides and his head bowed under her disapproval.


	33. Chapter 33

London, September, 1817

Georgiana seemed determined not to lose her heart again. They had come at Easter and then again in the fall as they had the year before and the number of invitations was swift that winged their way to the house.

Elizabeth had gone to Barker House in the morning to call on her friends. Georgiana had been invited out for a ride on horseback; Elizabeth was still no horsewoman and did not care to ride if not called to do so. She was not worried about her sister-in-law, it was only Mr. de Bourgh who was escorting Georgiana to the Park, not one of the many admirers who had Darcy and Fitzwilliam worried to a great extent.

It began to rain and Miss Clarion looked out the window, "it is raining so hard Georgiana will be wet through," she remarked.

"It is well that Mr. de Bourgh has taken her out this morning and not another gentleman; he is sensible enough to get her straight home," said Elizabeth looking up from her sketches. Such was the nature of her visits to Barker House that she brought paper and charcoal and the ladies of the house did not mind that she sketched them at her leisure in an informal manner. It allowed her to practice her skills, a small respite from her chaperone duties.

"Eustace is nearing thirty, it is a wonder he has not married," remarked Lady Susanna. "He was one of the cousins closest to me in age so we often played as children." She smiled as she recalled childhood memories of times in the nursery or playing in the London parks together.

"It is a wonder that Georgiana has not married yet, how many offers has Mr. Darcy received for her hand, Mrs. Darcy?" asked Miss Clarion.

Elizabeth set down her charcoal on a tray and looked over at the two gossips sitting next to each other. "Six, Georgiana has had six young men come to see Darcy about her hand. I do not think she seriously considered any one of them at all. Even Mr. Fitzwilliam had some young man come to see him."

"Fortune hunters are a sad part of this business," said Lady Susanna, "it is why I wish to have no part of it."

"It is fortuitous that you have your independence," said Elizabeth. She wondered about Miss Clarion, who, though a close friend of Lady Susanna and very devoted to her, had a small dowry similar to what Elizabeth's had been. Grace Clarion was not likely to win a wealthy husband but she did not appear interested in marriage and seemed quite as on the shelf as Lady Susanna. Both seemed of that ilk 'not inclined to marry.'

"Has Georgiana not mentioned a preference for any particular gentleman?" asked Mrs. Heene.

"No, she has not. With my sister Catherine married she has no confidant, and I fear I was never in that role." She had picked up her charcoal again but held it mid-air, frowning.

"No," laughed Mrs. Heene, "you have always been more of a mother to her." She rose to have her tea cup refilled.

Elizabeth's shoulders sagged and the charcoal dropped to her lap, marking her dress. She wondered at the observation, at the truth behind it. She had never been Georgiana's confident, had been far more of a caretaker, a mother, than a friend despite the fact that there were only four years between them, far fewer than between her and Darcy. It was as though in losing her maidenhood she had lost something, could she never be a friend again to another woman—a maid? Yet she was friends with the residents of Barker House.

"Yes," agreed Elizabeth half-heartedly. "I have had to guide her in a number of ways, fill in that role. She does not confide in me to any great extent and now that my sister Catherine is married I worry she has no one to share with, no confidant."

"So true!" said the always cheerful Miss Clarion. There was something about her manner that Elizabeth found a little irritating.

"I am sure Georgiana is able to decide on her heart without advice though we all might wish to weigh in on her choice," said Lady Susanna.

"She has been a motherless and almost friendless girl for most of her life," said Elizabeth. "Georgiana needs advice. She is still a very changeable girl," she said and finished with more warmth to her statement than she usually gave.

"I have seen a steadiness in her, a steadiness of purpose and of character this season," said the mistress of the house and Mrs. Heene nodded. "She was skittish last year, wanted frivolity and the attentions of questionable men and sought pleasure only, but this year she is a woman, not a girl," continued Lady Susanna.

"I believe she had her mind made up the first day of the season and she will make a sensible choice," said Mrs. Heene.

"She has not mentioned a single beau since we have arrived this fall," said Elizabeth, perplexed. "I should call for my carriage and make sure Georgiana has arrived home safely." She rose, packed her sketching equipment and departed.

* * *

The butler assured Elizabeth that Miss Darcy had indeed returned home from the Park safely. Elizabeth felt aggravated then at having rushed home; she had not wished to stop sketching but then Miss Clarion had seemed excessively irritating that morning. She walked up to her room at Darcy House passing by Georgiana's. Elizabeth considered knocking but hovered, her fist over the door, they could talk over tea. She dropped her hand by her side and kept walking.

She yawned as she walked into her room. Her bed was inviting; she spied it, considered the time of the day though she was not one to ever nap, but she lay down to rest feeling overwhelmed, agonizingly tired.

* * *

Georgiana dressed with particular care. She thought she had been happy when George Wickham had come to her in Ramsgate and asked her to marry him but today she was happier and yet feeling content—an odd combination she thought—as well.

She ran down the stairs to the drawing room and burst through the door but Elizabeth was not there. Tea was not laid out; no one had rung for it. She pouted and went to sit in Elizabeth's spot for a minute then stood up to ring for the tea and returned. She dutifully poured it herself when it arrived, acting as mistress of the house though peeved that she was alone and without company.

She sat and slowly sipped her tea and thought of her future, thought of the changes that would happen. It was unnerving to consider. She was the type to like to be able to predict her life and the events in it but being a rich heiress was going to change now. She looked out the window. The rain had cleared and the ball that evening at Lady Sandridge's should be lovely.

She thought of Elizabeth as a role model for her new life and frowned. Elizabeth did a lot of good as mistress of Pemberley, as a neighbor, patroness of charity to many in Derbyshire. She was certainly a loving sister; Georgiana had envied the relationship she saw between Catherine and Elizabeth—she had always fussed too much over Georgiana for them to be close.

She thought Elizabeth took devoted care of her brother, was playful and affectionate with Fitzwilliam in a way Georgiana never was and felt she could never be with her brother. Yet she considered Elizabeth overall and she thought her sister-in-law was melancholy, not deeply sad but was missing something as if life was not what she had expected. Everything Elizabeth had and did made her happy enough, Georgiana could see that, yet Elizabeth's life was not as she wished.

Georgiana would be different. She would be the mistress of a great estate one day, a role she had watched Elizabeth take on with a surprising ease and one she, Georgiana Darcy and soon to be Georgiana de Bourgh, had been raised to assume.

They had been riding and it had started to rain and Eustace—she thought of him as Eustace, not de Bourgh—beckoned her to the shelter of an ancient oak and in his own dry manner asked her to marry him. He said he loved her, they would do well together and everyone would be pleased; all of which she thought was true. Plus there was something romantic about a proposal in the rain in the Park. She had sorted him out from her pack. He was the best fit for her. And he was still handsome enough. Not charming like George Wickham, but he was sensible, rich and she would be the mistress of Rosings if what everyone said about Anne's health and lungs was true.

* * *

Fitzwilliam came to supper. Darcy was still in the country, some tenant dispute had arisen that needed his personal attention so Fitzwilliam was to escort the two of them to the Sandridge Ball. Elizabeth was quiet, more than he had ever seen her. Georgiana had enough high spirits for the two of them and was brimming over with excitement for the ball. He wondered if she would ever marry though as she would reach her majority the next year could he leave off with his responsibilities as guardian? He thought not.

He inquired in a friendly and general way after Elizabeth who admitted she was tired and had not pursued her regular exercise that day. He frowned, wondered if something had taken her away from her daily pleasures; he knew she loved her daily walks. There seemed some tension in the air and conversation was kept to general topics.

Elizabeth's wit seemed to elude her as well and he speculated that this second visit to London this year was too much for her. She was raised in the country, in Hertfordshire, and loved the delights found there. Long walks, smaller circles of friends and acquaintances and the nights ending when it was still actually dark, it had to be the life she craved and not the turmoil, disquiet, the hectic nights and bustle of the days that was the London season.

"Elizabeth, you seem unwell, perhaps you should stay at home?" he offered.

"No!" cried Georgiana her voice rising.

Elizabeth smiled, looking at her sister-in-law. "It is a little late to organize another chaperone for dear Georgiana. She has had her heart set on the Sandridge's Ball."

"I can send a note to Susanna and Mrs. Heene; they may, perhaps, be available," he pressed.

"I can tell you, since I saw them this morning, that they are engaged elsewhere," replied Elizabeth.

He looked from the weary eyes of Elizabeth to the eager ones of Georgiana and then nodded and ordered the carriage.

Lady Sandridge would be happy; her ball would later be labeled a 'crush.' He had once equated the de Bourgh brothers before to beams of sunshine; here was Eustace de Bourgh meeting their party as soon as they arrived a delighted look on his face, his light blond hair a beacon. Georgiana was all smiles, herself, as if a flower unfurling. He looked at the two of them grinning at each other as they attempted civilities before de Bourgh led her off for her first dance.

He turned to comment to Elizabeth but her face was not just pale but ashen and he took her arm.

"Truly, you are ill, let us find you a seat," he cried. She was a little unsteady on his arm and he dared putting his hand around her waist to steer her in search of a chair found only after a great hunt. He stood beside her while she fanned herself. An offer of a drink was rejected. They watched the dancing not speaking to each other for a long time. He was considering his suspicions of Georgiana and de Bourgh but he came to and looked down again at Elizabeth. Her eyes were closed and she had a hand to her chest.

"Elizabeth, truly you are not well. Let me take you home. Let me send for a physician," he cried.

Her hand fell down to rest in her lap and her eyes opened to look up at him. "It is truly nothing to worry about." She smiled. "I am fatigued," she put him off.

"You are unwell," he continued searching her eyes.

"It is nothing," she closed her eyes and turned her head.

"Elizabeth," and he kneeled, placed a hand at her elbow; their eyes meeting, on a level. "Let me take you home or fetch an apothecary at least," he pressed, squeezing her arm.

She looked at the concern in his eyes, just inches from her own. "I am, I believe, with child, but I have not told Darcy yet," she smiled wanly. Her eyes were sad, sad with having to tell him such news before the father knew.

He knelt there, felt as though his lips were numb and could not say anything in response. She was to have a child; Elizabeth was to have a child. He closed his eyes, fool he for pressing her to reveal her secret. Anger exploded within him; always the wrong thing, he always said the wrong thing to her. Such a fact should have been told to Darcy first before anyone else and he had badgered her to reveal it.

"I do believe I should return home," she said at last.

He stood and bowed before her. "I will fetch Georgiana," he said.

He had to find her amongst the crush of dancers on the floor but Eustace de Bourgh's corn silk blond hair made it far easier to pick him out than he supposed and he caught them after their set.

"Georgiana, we need to leave," said Fitzwilliam.

"It is still early!" she cried.

"Elizabeth is ill," he explained in his best soldier voice. She faltered.

De Bourgh was by her side and whispered in Georgiana's ear. Georgiana's face lit up and a wide smile spread over her face.

"Cannot Mr. de Bourgh escort me home?" asked Georgiana. Fitzwilliam who had his suspicions about the two thought he was convinced now.

"No," said the soldier. Georgiana pouted, de Bourgh moved closer to Georgiana.

"Please get your things," said Fitzwilliam. "Elizabeth is really ill." De Bourgh came over to Fitzwilliam to speak in his ear and confirm what he suspected and offered again to escort Georgiana home.

"De Bourgh," explained Fitzwilliam, "absolutely not, especially not now. You need to come see me later. Come Georgiana," and he headed for the door.

Georgiana trailed after him with de Bourgh in her wake. Fitzwilliam gently helped Elizabeth from her chair and into the carriage and they made for Darcy House. No one spoke the entire ride home.

He entrusted Elizabeth to the care of the housekeeper and a maid and saw a pouting Georgiana hover for a few moments before following. Fitzwilliam then went to find a place to await his visitor.

De Bourgh gave them a full hour to settle themselves then presented himself as Georgiana's lover and made a formal presentation for her hand in marriage. Fitzwilliam had only had that one fop, Nibley do such a thing last year, he of the curly locks and blue eyes and empty pockets. Nibley had been easy to show the door. Fitzwilliam knew de Bourgh stood to inherit well, and if his Cousin Anne's health really did fail, Eustace de Bourgh would also inherit Rosings. It would be a good match, so he gave his consent.

"We need to get Darcy's consent as well, though I do not doubt he will approve," concluded Fitzwilliam.

* * *

Fitzwilliam's worries over both Elizabeth and Georgiana meant he stayed the night at Darcy House. He had a small room occasionally assigned for use and sometime after midnight Walsh showed up, knowing somehow, to tend to him.

It should have killed him, it was Darcy's child, but it was also Elizabeth's child. He felt as he did whenever Lady Clara shared her news with him about an impending rascal; there seemed no greater joy. Fitzwilliam adored his nephews and now his niece; had looked forward to their births and watched them grow with pleasure and delight. The idea of Elizabeth's child hit him the same way: joy. He could not, however, help worrying. He knew she was not happy with the constant demands from their social life in London and was a country girl and happier with the quieter delights of life at Pemberley, would wish for more time at her canvas. He thought of Lady Clara's lost child, lost in grief and he thought of the tumult and excitement and pandemonium that would occur because of wedding plans and worried that this might be too much and she might lose the baby in all of the hustle and bustle of the activity required.

"She should go straight home to Pemberley to rest," he thought as he lay awake considering all the changes coming. It would be different to have Georgiana leaving Pemberley, but then they would have a child. He would have little reason to visit Pemberley now. He would have little reason to see her now. He should write Mr. Barry soon.

He left right after breakfast and called on his sister. While Georgiana's betrothal was not exactly official until Darcy approved and it was published in the papers, he informed her of it at once and enlisted her and her friends' help. Georgiana would still need to be chaperoned, and the wedding details would, he suggested gently, be something that might be beyond Elizabeth. Lady Susanna agreed to the scheme, congratulating him on his ward's betrothal.

"For we were discussing her just yesterday, I had told Elizabeth that Georgiana had developed a solid head on those shoulders and would make a good choice. I am pleased; it is a good match for both of them!"

"Yes," agreed her brother, "I had not thought she would grow into sense, but I am pleased she has got over her disappointment."

"Disappointment?" she said and looked at him quizzically.

" 'Tis nothing," he said realizing his slip, "she had a girlhood crush on a…rascal of a man, but she has grown out of it." He thought then of Wickham and his own end in all of this, and it sobered him.

"Girlhood crushes are foolish things indeed, young girls are especially prone to thinking they know what love is and to think they cannot live another moment longer without the object of their love."

"Were you ever in love as a young girl Susanna?" he asked suddenly.

"I think all young girls find themselves in love," she answered, which was not quite an answer.

* * *

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy arrived at Darcy House that afternoon to a rather domestic scene of his wife lying with her eyes closed and appearing to sleep on a chaise lounge while his sister, Georgiana, sat in pride of place and poured tea for his cousin Edward Fitzwilliam.

"Brother!" she cried, looking at him over the tea service. "Eustace has asked me to marry him and Elizabeth is to have a baby!"


	34. Chapter 34

Pemberley, December, 1817

She could not fault him. The whole country was in mourning for Princess Charlotte and her infant son. While many worried about the succession of the English throne the occupants of Pemberley House could not help but worry about the mistress of Pemberley after reading about the death of a princess and her child because of childbirth. If the best physicians in all of England could not save a princess when brought to bed with a child it brought to bear the challenges and risks of childbirth to all of them.

* * *

Darcy was so concerned for the child that he wished for Elizabeth to limit her physical activity. She missed her long walks. To only walk in the sheltered gardens was not sufficient. She felt a balance of elation and discouragement. She was to have a child finally and was filled with a sense of completeness when she contemplated its birth but the limitations of sitting and waiting were difficult for her.

There was the chapel. It has not been used since Georgiana was christened there twenty years ago and then opened once more to allow old Mr. Darcy to lie in state and be mourned some ten or so years now past. Some ancestor in the past one hundred years had added it and the architecture did not quite match Pemberley House's style. It stood apart but not so different that it was an eyesore. It was just enough of a walk that if the weather was pleasant she was permitted to head to it as a destination which allowed her to get beyond the confines of the walled, formal gardens near the house.

She had never been inside the chapel and was never curious enough to inquire about a key to explore inside for outside was where she wished to be, attempting some sort of exercise and away from the coddling restrictions of the ivory tower that Pemberley House had become. So many of the staff had been instructed to deny or divert her from her usual employments. Even a wish to request a carriage and to visit her sister Catherine was denied though if she wrote and arranged it, a carriage could be sent to Kympton Parsonage to fetch Kitty and her son to visit Pemberley. Mrs. Worth, Mrs. Alport, and even Mrs. Stanhope from Lambton came to visit and offer her advice now and again. Some days she was excessively tired but she felt well, overjoyed, in high spirits at the prospect of this child. Darcy seemed pleased in his level-headed way. He had been surprised by Georgiana's announcement that afternoon.

That day, he had returned to London and his own drawing room after a long trip to Pemberley to deal with some difficult issues to see his wife laid out asleep on a chaise lounge, his cousin in conversation with his sister who turned to share not one but two such life-changing pieces of news. He had been by her side then to exclaim over his happiness, waking her from her slumber. Georgiana had been cross at her own news taking second stage to his.

It has been six weeks of chaos then, without Lady Susanna's help and the Countess Dunchurch's, who had come up to London to help as well, he would not have survived. All of the details, the arrangements, invitations to be handled, the cousins to be housed when they arrived, were all handled by them.

He had considered sending Elizabeth home to rest; even Fitzwilliam had suggested the same but the Countess and others said the trip was likely the worst part for a woman with child and Elizabeth did not wish to miss Georgiana's wedding. So he ordered her to keep to her rooms, to her bed, as much as she could.

Miss Georgiana Darcy married Mr. Eustace de Bourgh in November. It was the society wedding his sister wished for with her lavender-blue dress complementing her dark hair, the massive wedding breakfast and the multitude of compliments on the handsome couple. They were such a contrast the tall, dark-haired lady with her sunshine-haired groom and many had fine compliments to say about the pair. The couple left for Ayford estate, eschewing any sort of planned wedding trip.

Darcy then packed his wife, his pregnant wife, in their travel coach and headed at the slowest pace possible for Pemberley to await the birth of his son and heir.

It was as he had traveled home that he had revisited that scene, her by Fitzwilliam's side and had begun to have some doubts. It had been the happiest of domestic pictures: the lady lounging, aglow with happiness, expecting a child, the man sitting next to her, laughing and talking, himself happy.

Darcy knew Fitzwilliam had loved Elizabeth, still loved Elizabeth. How could Fitzwilliam be happy for her to be with child, Darcy's child? So he began to have doubts. Was Elizabeth's child his own?

* * *

The year was one of overall happiness: Georgiana's wedding, the impending birth of the child, but in December, however, came word that Mr. Stanhope was stricken one evening and died suddenly in his bed that same night. There was an outpouring of sympathy from all the neighbors for Mrs. Stanhope. They made visits of condolences, local gentlemen helped to see him buried as it seemed there were no relatives who presented themselves to mourn for him.

Many began to wonder what would happen to Mrs. Stanhope and more importantly, what would happen to the Stanhope estate and property? Was she a rich widow now? She was just past forty, perhaps, and though a slightly ascerbic-tongued lady, her hair was not yet gray. Would she remarry? Once her mourning period was over, some of the unmarried gentlemen of the neighborhood might have turned their eyes towards her.

All the speculation on Mrs. Stanhope's future prospects as a widow was irrevocably changed when Mr. Stanhope's will was revealed. The entire Streatley Estate was to be left to his natural son, Mr. Augustus Leigh. All Mrs. Stanhope was to receive was a legacy of three hundred pounds a year, her jewelry and the right to live in one of the houses on the estate—there was no dowager house. The three hundred pounds were said to be the interest on her dowry and many thought it was a stingy compensation after twenty years of marriage.

That Stanhope had been a jolly, well-liked gentleman and Mrs. Stanhope a sharp and observant lady did not sway many in their protests against the unfairness of Stanhope's treatment of her. Mr. Leigh was said to be the result of an affair while Stanhope had been at Oxford and Mr. Stanhope had supported this son all through his growth and upbringing giving him a gentleman's education. No one was sure how to take all of this, whether they would visit him—a merchant's son buying an estate was one thing, but the bastard son, though a gentleman's natural son, was another.

They were not to see Mr. Leigh, however, for he wrote Mrs. Stanhope a private letter, one she did not share with her neighbors, but he said he had no wish to supplant her from Streatley Hall, thought it a rotten thing his father had done, and would let her continue to live there for the present time. She could hide then, at the Hall, behind the black-draped curtains and claim mourning as the excuse for refusing visitors though many would wish to visit and speak with her. Perhaps he had received a gentleman's education after all.


	35. Chapter 35

Dunchurch Coombe, February 1818

A letter came from Radbourne—the handwriting was so familiar—and lay waiting for him. A son had been born at last. Francis, Lord Selbourne had made his appearance four days ago now and Radbourne was ecstatic with his progeny.

Fitzwilliam had the same intense sense of happiness at the idea of another nephew, and he wondered how Dunchurch felt. Radbourne and Lady Frederica had not been quick in producing the heir and his father had been aging. Fitzwilliam wondered if he was permitted—had the same freedom as with Clara's brood—to show up unannounced to see baby Francis. He thought it likely it would be a large christening with all the distant cousins called in to stay and to witness.

* * *

A fortnight later he was sitting in his carriage traveling to Dunchurch Coombe with the heaviest of hearts, recalling 1814, and that dark winter and the repeated blows he had suffered then. News that Elizabeth had married, that the baby had died, Anna-Sophia had died in childbirth and then suffering through Richard's death. His mother was so correct about loving and grief; they went hand-in-hand.

Dunchurch was dead. He had been sick and held on to see his grandson born.

Fitzwilliam was surprised how effected he was by his father's passing. He grieved that his father was gone. Grieved that his father's life, his era, his leadership at Dunchurch Coombe had come to a close for he had been a good master, a good role model. A good father. He may, he realized, have been different from his father but he found no fault with Dunchurch's treatment or the way that Dunchurch had treated any of them. He should like to do the same, have sons and daughters and raise them the same way his father had raised him.

The windows were dutifully draped in black; the servants wore black armbands as he was met at the door. He sought out his mother without the bother of changing. Family had gathered in the largest, sunniest drawing room though the drapes were drawn against the sunshine. He kissed Lady Clara in greeting as he passed by her but went to wrap his arms around his mother and press a gentle kiss to her cheek.

"I am sorry," and his voice broke.

"Dearest Edward!" and she hugged him back, a gesture so atypical of her. "I miss him so much," her voice caught, "forty years together, such love."

"Mamma," he began, having so much he wanted to say to her.

"Oh! Go away or I really shall cry. Only you affect me, Ned," and she pushed him gently, patting him with those loving hands. He turned away. He understood.

He spoke to his siblings in turn, warmth in their handshakes. Warmth too in his in-law's handshakes. The older Ladbroke children were there, the three oldest boys, permitted below stairs since it was just family right then. He said greetings to John and to Ned, but Jamie was standing by the window with the drapes cracked open peering outside. He looked like a bored, ordinary, eight year old for once.

"Sir James, how do you fare?" asked Fitzwilliam.

Jamie turned slowly. His eyes were red and he blinked a few times which did not work so he drew his hand across his eyes and the tears and then rubbed his nose.

"I miss Grandpapa very much," and he leapt at Fitzwilliam who hugged him close.

"You can cry, that is permitted." And he did act like any boy missing his grandfather and cried on his uncle's waistcoat. Fitzwilliam dabbed at the tears with his handkerchief once they had mostly abated.

"Even Grandmamma cries," said Jamie as they stood there, a little separated from the rest of the family.

"How do you know?" asked his uncle.

"I took her a rose in her dressing room and she was crying," said Jamie.

"That was a very special thing you did for your grandmother. She is very sad. Grandpapa was very special to her. He is…was probably the person she loved the most," explained the uncle.

"And now he is gone." A statement, not a question.

"Yes, now he is gone."

"Do you have someone special, Uncle Ned?"

Fitzwilliam paused, looked into his nephew's blue-gray eyes, another family trait, and had to be honest. "Yes, there is a lady I love very much."

"Would you be sad if she died?" asked his philosopher nephew.

"Very sad. I think I should not be able to bear it," and he choked back tears just thinking of the idea.

"Mamma says Uncle Richard was sad when his lady died," said Jamie.

"He was," answered Fitzwilliam.

"I do not want any of my family to be sad," said Jamie. He looked up at his uncle. Along with his coloring, he showed signs of inheriting the same height and form as his uncles Ned and Everard. His father, Ladbroke, was a half a head shorter. "I wish there was a way to cheer them up."

"I think the flower you gave to Grandmamma was an excellent idea, Sir James," said Fitzwilliam.

"But roses are only for ladies, for Grandmamma, Mamma and Aunt Susanna. I cannot give Uncle Everard a flower," argued James.

"He has a new baby, his son. I believe that will help to cheer him up, in time," added Fitzwilliam.

"What about you, Uncle Ned? Do you have a son to bring you cheer?" Asked Jamie.

Fitzwilliam choked then. Such an innocent question, or perhaps a probing one.

"No Jamie. I do not have a son."

"Then I shall cheer you up," said the young knight with conviction.

"I thank you," said the old, sad soldier. "I should welcome it, especially from you."


	36. Chapter 36

Pemberley, Easter, 1818

Fitzwilliam had arrived at Pemberley to collect his cousin as he did every spring. It was to be a short trip to Rosings this year since the baby was due in just over a month. His grief and melancholy about his father meant he was not particularly looking forward to facing his aunt.

She was beautiful; being with child gave her skin a glow. Her figure was compact and curvaceous; he looked at her sitting and pouring tea and was astonished that she fit a child within her frame. He wondered about the curves of her figure in the flesh—what did a woman with child look like without clothes? Her breasts were enlarged, but he had seen large breasts; he had never seen a pregnant belly, however, the pregnant belly of his wife, never seen it grow over the months, measured how it changed.

Suddenly there was that realization that he would not ever have children of his own and sadness crashed over him, and washed down him. He thought even tea would make him ill. He thought about Jamie asking after a son to cheer him after Dunchurch's passing. He would never see his son's creation, watch his form manifest in his wife's belly, place his hands there and feel that life within and wonder at its creation.

He excused himself, claimed weariness from the days of travel and went to his room.

* * *

Elizabeth and Georgiana rose to leave the two men to their drink and conversation. Georgiana yawned, her eyes half-lidded, kissed her and said she would retire. Elizabeth considered going to work on her current painting but the lack of daylight stopped her. She made her way from the dining room and trailed her way through the house looking at pictures scattered on the walls. The music room was cold, wanting a fire and light, so she called for assistance to give warmth to the grate and to light the candelabra that stood on the pianoforte.

It had been a long time since she had played, painting had been her focus. With Georgiana gone—though she was here for short se'ennight visit—the joy of playing together had been lost that shared comradery, for it was just her and Darcy in the house. Elizabeth had not practiced or played for a long time. Her fingers were no longer as limber but her enjoyment of the music returned. Her fingers became more flexible as she ran them up and down the keys, missing or skipping notes yet finding enjoyment in her performance all the same.

Whether from the long time on the small piano stool or because the babe normally became more active in the late evenings she felt it stirring in her belly as she played. Perhaps it woke because of the music and was transfixed and doing some sort of dance inside her as she skipped her fingers over the keyboard. Eventually she found herself out of breath and put her fingers atop her belly to rub and sooth the child within which did nothing to stop the tantrums inside.

She rose, still as restless as before, but without any means of alleviating her anxiety. It was later than she considered and any thoughts of an outside stroll were not possible so she set off wandering. Elizabeth had no actual idea of the time. She considered a visit to the library to obtain a book since she felt she could not possibly sleep.

She crept through the house, first visiting the Long Gallery to stare into the portraits of long dead Darcys wondering if her son, this child, who still twisted and turned with animation would look like any of these painted people whose features were laid out by candlelight before her. There were fair-haired ancestors hung next to dark haired ones in the Long Gallery, short fair ladies next to tall stately gentlemen. Darcy's likeness was there, both as an adult and as a child: a small boy on his mother's knee. Bingley's sons all looked like him though she supposed it was because of the hair. The other nephews were all, perhaps, too small yet to determine to whom they owed their looks. If their child was a girl would she look like Elizabeth? Would she be as dark-haired as her Aunt Georgiana? It was exciting and frustrating at the same time. But perhaps, thought Elizabeth, I need to consider whether she will be quiet and contemplative like her father or if she will be impulsive and outspoken and be as much a bane to me as Mrs. Bennet claims I was to her. She smiled and then let out a single laugh.

The end of the Long Gallery was reached and she traced her way towards the library in a bubble of silence. No servants moved about, only her candle glowed around her and her slippers made a soft sound on the hard floor. The door was heavier than she remembered, managing it with a candle and a large belly added to her difficulties. A glow shown from the hearth and Fitzwilliam sat before it with a book on his knee and a drink balanced on the chair arm held delicately in place with two fingers as he read by firelight.

"Hello," she called to him. His hand clasped his glass with a little more firmness but he looked up with a smile.

"Hello, you are up late," he stood suddenly, his glass still in his hand but his book falling to the floor. She crossed the room to him and reached down to retrieve his book and returned it to him.

"I fear I am not in the least interested in sleep, or at least," and she rubbed her belly, "my son is not interested in sleep and is keeping me awake."

He nodded her into the chair opposite him. "Is this a common occurrence?"

"I fear it is so. He seems to wake up just as I contemplate sleeping myself. It is most unfair," and she laughed. He smiled and raised his glass in a mock salute to his mischievous cousin.

"A wild child," he said.

"Did Darcy retire? I must have missed him in passing," she asked adjusting her position in her chair, scooting her body forward which thrust her belly up but helped to relieve her back.

He hesitated, and took in a breath before answering, "…he went for a walk. I do not doubt he will return soon."

"I considered the same thing myself but it is too late and too cold for a walk though I feel restless, almost as if I could walk to Kympton and back," she said and adjusted her position again. He looked away and then back at her again and then moved down to sit on the footstool between them to stoke the fire and get the coals to light.

"I will see if I cannot bring some more warmth to this room though this fire is not to last much longer." He worked on making the flames dance in the fireplace and she watched. Elizabeth held out her hands while the flames flared up into the chimney but they did not last long and could not be maintained. They died back with flickers of flame licking across the tops of the coals.

Her hands went back to her belly. "Ooh, he is a rascal, this child," and she shifted again in her chair. Fitzwilliam looked up at her, one hand steading herself as she moved, the other hand fixed to her belly. He saw movement then, a tiny pump against her skirt beside her hand. The hand moved to the spot to rub it. "Was Darcy a wild boy? May I lay all this activity at his feet?" she said.

"He was as active as any boy. He never got caught in the wild scrapes my brother Richard and I planned and executed. I think _caught_ is perhaps the important term; he was the only son and so not to be suspected or punished." He was laughing though the laughter did not extend to his eyes. His eyes, despite whatever had been in his glass, were sober.

She was brought forward with a particularly active punch in her gut and she clasped firm hands on her belly letting out a great breath of air and a slight moan.

"Lizzy, are you well?" he cried reaching out a hand towards her but stopping short of touching her.

"Yes, it is only the babe," and she took his hand and placed it on her swollen belly. So often babies do not perform when they are asked to, but this one placed a kick directly against his hand and he looked up at her with surprise and delight. She adjusted her position again and then reached for his other hand coaxing it up into place. The baby squirmed and wriggled in her belly and underneath his hands as he held them still on her swollen form.

"It is a babe," he whispered as his touch was electrified for the baby seemed to dance beneath his fingers. "It is a life," and a tear rolled from his eye as he drew in a labored breath, "a life," and more tears followed. He looked up at her with raw emotion, raw pain that sprang from him, and was written on his face as tears fell he could not control, tears unshed over the trials of his time on the Peninsula, of Waterloo, and of the helplessness for living when others had died, in losing John Moor; the grief, though it had been four years all felt anew over the loss of his beloved brother Richard and now of losing his father. Elizabeth covered his own hands with hers, holding them and imbuing him with all the strength she could while the baby danced for him and he cried at the miracle of life in her belly.

She stared at the man across from her, his hands enveloping her belly; she had always admired him, always held him in highest regards but it was as she watched him cry unabashedly over the life she carried that she realized how much she loved him. Loved him more than she had ever loved any person, not Jane or Charlotte or Catherine or Darcy. She had loved him since first meeting him at Rosings that spring, years past now, and now that she was married to another and within weeks, or perhaps days, of bearing his child. She was elated and felt numb at the same time.

Fitzwilliam's agony abated and his breathing calmed and he then looked up at her, the turmoil still roiling inside him and she raised up one of their joined hands and kissed his palm, and then laid it against the side of her face, pressing her hand against his to hold it there.

His fingers stroked her face, his other hand cradled her belly and then a feeling, not to be denied came over him and he pulled himself up to kiss her. He held himself aloft, so as to not crush her belly, hovering over her, only their lips touching but he could not deny that she returned his kiss with an equal ardor. His other hand came up and his hands cradled her soft cheeks in his own as he kissed her openly and passionately. Thumbs wiping away the tears that appeared in her eyes, then he kissed the tops of her cheeks where the tears had laid.

A sound, a door closing, or a shutter flinging open against a window brought them to and he sat down hard on his footstool then moved back to his chair.

They were both well used to words yet could not find words to say to each other now. She looked at him and tears came again, fell at the thought of having to stand and leave the room and leave him. Fitzwilliam looked at her face, her tears, and could not fathom what eclipsed her mind or her heart. Whether she found him offensive and was affronted or whether she loved him; he had kissed her when she was with child, in such a state of pregnancy. He thought he ought to put a bullet to his head for such an offense but he could not regret it.

He stood; he could not speak but he bowed his good night and left.

Elizabeth listened to the door shut though he had closed it so gently. She sat with her fingertips alight on her cheeks where he had touched them, closed her eyes and recalled his lips on her own.

* * *

She could not sit for more than five minutes at a time. It was late afternoon and the babe in her belly slept; it was not _his_ fault that she was so awake, so restless, so _alive._ Elizabeth was determined not to attend services the next day, she so feared she would not be able to sit through in proper contemplation of a half hour sermon without getting up to pace the church aisles or leave the service altogether. That would be unaccountable. No employment spoke to her, no book, not the pianoforte, not her painting and she wondered at her inability to focus on any particular thought or activity or to even have an appetite.

She wondered if she was near her time of confinement but did not wish to ring for a servant and call for Mrs. Gordon the midwife. She had done so four times within the last fortnight despite its being early—the child was not due for a month—and each time Mrs. Gordon had said she was not near, that the babe had not turned and was still with his feet down. What if he never turned? Elizabeth knew that breech births were difficult with more risks for mother and child. Princess Charlotte's child had been breech. She stood to ring the chord and then froze and thought to give herself more time and when she actually pulled on the chord told the footman to bring her portable writing desk to her.

She did not wish to send verbal messages to Darcy which would be repeated in the servants hall, but wrote him a short note to say she would dine in her room rather than partake supper with him, Fitzwilliam and Georgiana who was visiting for a few days while de Bourgh traveled. Sending the note to him she duly ordered her supper and retired to her room. She surprised herself by falling asleep after her light supper which she only half finished. If Darcy looked in on her she did not know it.


	37. Chapter 37

Pain woke her up. It wove up her belly and she was pulling in large breaths of air and she could only lie where she was on her side, clenching a fistful of the sheets while the wave of pain cramped and crinkled at the lower edge of her belly. Relief came and she could take breaths in regular succession and rolled to her back looking up in the dark, mollified, tears in her eyes for the relief of it. She did not know how much time had passed and then her belly cramped up again and she rolled to the side again and she held her breath but found that made it worse so took deep gasping breaths until again relief came and again she rolled to her back. It was well beyond midnight and part of her body wanted only to sleep so it seemed to ease into sleeping between the bouts of pain; she knew not how many times she rolled over before she wondered about calling for someone, calling for help, the midwife, calling for Darcy.

One set was particularly disturbing and she called aloud, tears coming to her eyes, and she could not help but cry out. She rolled to her knees, propped herself on her hands and let her belly hang, finding some small relief as her head hung down and she cried tears on the sheets.

"Elizabeth!" cried Darcy who came through the door from the dressing room, "are you ill, is it the baby?" He had a candle with him and looked with a fierce concern at her on her hands and knees on the bed crying in pain. She could not answer him, her breathing was needed for nothing else but managing the pain. She relaxed back onto her haunches, supporting her weight behind her with one hand and placing the other on her belly.

"Fetch Mrs. Gordon," was all she said. There was something in her that understood that she had to save all her energy for the birthing of the baby and that included the use of words. He nodded but then came over to pull a lock from her cheek and kiss it before he returned the way he came.

The midwife arrived in good time but not before she had been racked by many other bouts of labor pains. Elizabeth knew that her lying-in might last many hours, a half a day or a whole day. Charlotte's first daughter had been over a day in coming, so she resolved to face whatever lay before her.

Mrs. Gordon had two items to report, the first was that the baby _had_ turned and was not be born breech, the second was that despite her labor—and she was laboring well—she was doing poorly. Elizabeth wondered at her meaning and the midwife explained that her pains were regular and strong which were good signs but that the birth opening was not widening which was a poor sign. She warned Elizabeth that it was likely to be a longer confinement than was normal.

So they welcomed the dawn together, the old midwife and Elizabeth as she rode the waves of pain when they came, Mrs. Gordon rubbing her back for relief at times, chaffing her hands or feet at other times. Two meals were delivered and not partaken of, Elizabeth had no appetite that she could even discern or identify. By the afternoon she was only tired and disgusted with her body as the midwife's reports were always the same, 'no progress.' A short note, after Sunday luncheon, had been sent up by the master of the house asking after Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Gordon had sent back a verbal reply, simply, "God's will."

Another note arrived around teatime, Mrs. Worth and Mrs. Alport had arrived and requested to be shown to the lying-in room. Elizabeth at first thought it was an odd time to call, but the midwife assured her it was more than a social call and she remembered the reverend's wife had been delivered of a child less than a year ago and Mrs. Alport was mother to five. She was struck that should her own mother be nearer, or her married sisters available, they too might be in the room with her. Catherine, though near, was restricted to her house as mumps had stricken them. And dear Georgiana—a married woman now—had declined, without explanation, the invitation to sit with Elizabeth.

Mrs. Alport suggested walking, gently looking to Mrs. Gordon as she conveyed the idea, saying she had found it efficacious with her last two births. The midwife nodded and the women worked to dress Elizabeth warmly in extra stockings, rang for a warm cloak and they bundled her to the secluded walk on the south side of the house. She had to pause twice on the way downstairs to cling to the banister and to one of her friends while her womb worked at molding itself to better expel its small miracle of life contained within.

* * *

"Brother," Georgiana did not address Darcy as 'Fitzwilliam' when their cousin was visiting as it created too much confusion of address—and she did not call the former Colonel by his Christian name—"Brother, why is Elizabeth in the rose garden?" asked Georgiana with her tea cup in hand and looking out of the window.

Darcy rose with a bound to his feet and came to stand by his sister; his cousin was next to him within seconds. The trio looked out onto a scene not one of them could have ever imagined, Elizabeth, the vicar's wife, Mrs. Alport and the midwife appeared to be strolling at their ease, in the rose garden. Mrs. Worth and Mrs. Alport were at Elizabeth's sides though and as they watched Elizabeth suddenly bend forward as though she had been kicked; the pain discernable to all of them even at this distance. Mrs. Alport stood then before, her holding Elizabeth's hands while Mrs. Gordon stroked her back.

"Elizabeth," cried Darcy and his palm beat against the window. He had been barred from her chamber, understood he would not see her again until the baby came yet here she was within the sheltered confines of the garden; walking with the women of the parish almost as if it were a social call though the bent-over posture spoke differently.

Georgiana dropped her tea cup on the floor, spilling her tea, and her hands flew to touch her own belly and she turned away. Her brother looked at her suddenly, at her surprise at Elizabeth's discomfort, at his sister's distress, and understanding came to him, he touched her arm and led Georgiana to a seat.

Fitzwilliam stood transfixed as he watched Elizabeth bent over in pain, clasped in the arms of her friends and then suddenly she stood and while not wearing a smile, there was relief that the pain was passed, and her two friends took her arms and then traced a few more steps. Five minutes later she was doubled over in pain again, and again her friends held her and soothed her and she soldiered on. He watched the women once more walking as if enjoying the weather all the while waiting for pain to come and knowing it would be—certain of it—and he considered with amazement that women did this every day, had done this every day since creation.

Fitzwilliam turned back to the room and saw Darcy sitting with his sister who was crying abundantly and he did not know if he should relieve Darcy, who should only be worrying about his child, or if it was a family matter and so he needed to absence himself from the room.

"I fear I will not be able to face it," Georgiana was wailing, "how does she face it, Brother?" and she cried sobbing tears and Darcy seemed confused and upset as to handle his overly emotional sister.

"But you and de Bourgh will have a child, an heir, and there will be cousins to play together," said Darcy and he looked at Fitzwilliam then with pleading eyes, and Edward Fitzwilliam understood Georgiana and Eustace de Bourgh were to have a child though they had not shared the news.

"Georgiana," said Fitzwilliam, coming to sit on her other side, "you will make the sweetest mother."

"But I could not go be with Elizabeth in the lying-in room and now that I see and know; I fear I will not be able to face it!" she cried her tears ever-flowing and both her brother and her cousin at a loss as to how to soothe her.

"Where is de Bourgh?" asked Fitzwilliam, looking at Darcy.

"He had gone to visit friends in Derby for two days and is due back this evening," remarked Darcy who held his sister's hand.

"Let me get you a new cup of tea, Georgiana," said Fitzwilliam, and he dutifully poured her a new one and bringing it to her urged her to sip it which seemed to help lessen the tears.

Darcy began speaking of the fine weather and that de Bourgh should make good time and be back to her side soon and could take her home straight away to Ayford estate, and Fitzwilliam slipped to the window again. The women were still in the garden. Elizabeth had her hands on Mrs. Worth's shoulders, her head bowed as if in deep prayer while Mrs. Alport had her arm around her, somehow he could tell she was speaking to Elizabeth, speaking words of comfort. Then once again they were strolling as genteel women, a stroll on a fine spring afternoon.

He considered his own experience of pain; he had passed out from it after receiving his first crippling wounds at Vittoria and passed out twice more when the pain was too intense. It had exploded and overwhelmed and never stopped but as his body healed or the laudanum had worked it had diminished. The pain of childbirth was different as far he could tell a heightened pain that then crashed to nothing or a manageable portion and then rolled up again and yet women did not pass out from it but remained alert, awake during it. Were they permitted laudanum, how intense was the pain?

The women were making their way back into the house, and he also felt guilty for spying overly long on Darcy's wife and returned to sit and helped to distract Georgiana from her perceived woes.


	38. Chapter 38

As evening turned into night, Mrs. Worth had to return to her own home and Elizabeth thanked her with a few short words for her company. Mrs. Alport was to stay and was offered accommodations; they were accepted and for the first time since being brought to bed Elizabeth allowed weeping tears to come at being so well taken care of. She appreciated the motherly attentions of Mrs. Alport in a way she could not have ever anticipated.

The walking had helped, according to Mrs. Gordon and she was hopeful that the baby would make his appearance but she labored and yet there was no sign of a child. The midwife assured her the babe was alive and she could feel quickening movements but Elizabeth was tired after a day of such action and little food and no sleep and surprised neither Mrs. Alport nor Mrs. Gordon when she found she could sleep between her labor pains as Sunday rolled into Monday and still there was no progress.

Mrs. Gordon was called to the door in the dead of night to speak to Mr. Darcy who, having despaired of news of his baby or wife, had braved the door of the lying-in chamber to ask for news rather than rely on messages being sent back and forth. Her assurances that all was well did not suit him and he insisted on sending for a physician from Derby and not the local Lambton apothecary. Mrs. Gordon gave her grudging approval and shut the door; Mr. Darcy saw nothing of his wife during the exchange.

There were some slight improvements as the morning wore on though Elizabeth felt that she herself had no more energy and yet she was called on to keep finding some. Mrs. Gordon suggested breaking her waters as that would bring a conclusion to all of her problems, saying that with a smile. She had mentioned the physician Mr. Darcy had ordered from Derby and while neither woman expressed their displeasure at his joining them in there was a greater need for expediency.

So her nightclothes were changed and she was warned of the flood—and of the need then to stay in her bed—and Mrs. Gordon duly broke her waters. Its effect was profound and what she thought had been intense pains before were eclipsed by new waves of such intensity that she could only give over to them and allow her body to work what it needed to do though she could no longer control her temperament and tears would fall or she would cry out in great pain and then be comforted by her companions.

The physician from Derby duly arrived after the noon hour and immediately demanded a meal before even examining his patient. He was then admitted, after his repast, looked at his patient curled on the bed while Mrs. Alport wiped her brow and ordered the two women out of the room. They refused to go but at least repaired to a corner of the room. He did not examine Elizabeth, touching not her belly or forehead, but rolled up her sleeve, lanced a line in her arm and let a stream of blood fall into his collection bowl, declared he was done when he had collected four ounces and then requested a room to retire to until he was of further need. Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Alport were happy to see him go. Sequestered in his room, he partook of another fine meal and two bottles of wine and did not come again to check on his patient.

It was as evening gave way to night that her womb relented its treasure. Considering the forty hours of preparation Elizabeth had to endure; her daughter's journey into light and life was but a few mere minutes and Mrs. Gordon was clucking and laughing at the small creature in her hands as she rubbed the baby's body and Mrs. Alport exclaimed over the small bundle, her head on the lady's shoulders as she still held Elizabeth aloft gazing at her daughter, and weeping tears of joy.

Elizabeth was laid back on the bed, her exhaustion so complete that her eyelids tingled with drowsiness and a wave, of a different sort, ran from her head downwards as though a great weight was pressing her to the bed and she felt she could sleep until summer. The nursery maid was called and she and Mrs. Gordon were busy and Elizabeth lay on her bed happy and content and ready to sleep and accordingly did drowse.

The door was thrown open and the physician came in; they had forgotten about Dr. Walcott and he came to his patient now using language against Mrs. Gordon that was condescending and almost abusive but the midwife stood her ground and had the nursery maid show him the sleeping baby and assure him that all was well. He opened his mouth to speak, advancing on both the patient and the midwife when Mr. Darcy appeared at the door and then his manner changed, all cloying and condescension to the master of the house and he bowed to his patron congratulating him on the birth of his child.

"Son or daughter?" asked Darcy looking at the physician who faltered as he did not know the sex of the child.

"Daughter," said Mrs. Gordon who had paused before answering the question then waved the nursery maid forward who handed the small bundle to her father. Darcy took the package wondering at the small life. She was small and red and quite like any other baby he had seen, but he nestled her to his chest and gazed at her until she opened her mouth in a yawn and he hastily gave her over to the maid who took her off to the nursery. Mrs. Alport followed the maid, stating a wish to allow Mr. Darcy a moment with his wife.

Elizabeth had propped herself up when Darcy had come in, though she was still fighting the urge to sleep, and had watched him gaze at his daughter. A pinch in her side made her winch and she moved in bed and felt blood trickling still from between her legs. Mrs. Gordon had warned her it would be so and she shifted her position but the pinch in her side intensified and became tighter and sharper and she closed her eyes as what felt like renewed labor pains came on and she gasped holding onto her belly, falling back onto the bed.

"My lady!" cried Mrs. Gordon coming to her side and wiping aside stray lock of hair, "what is it?"

"Pain…and blood," gasped Elizabeth as the rolls of pain increased and she squeezed her eyelids tightly together and breathed with sudden heavy and substantial breaths. Mrs. Gordon gingerly touched the top of the belly and was making her way down with delicately probing fingers when she looked up into the eyes of the physician who had pulled a chair to the end of Elizabeth's bed.

"She is my patient, let me see," he declared pulling aside sheets, "I believe there is a second child." Darcy gazed with some wonderment and trepidation as the physician sat with great authority and prepared to deliver a second baby. Darcy hesitated unsure at such an idea, turning to see if he should leave or stay.

"I do not believe it is a second child," said Mrs. Gordon sternly, "she is…"

"Madam!" croaked Dr. Walcott and peeled away more layers of blood-soaked sheets and garments, "I must deliver this child at once!" and so saying he reached a hand out to assist a second child and only dislodged whatever was making a damn in Elizabeth's womb. A deluge resulted in his being covered from eyebrow to lap in blood and he sat stunned, his arm raised in shock.

"She is hemorrhaging," answered Mrs. Gordon and stepped in to pull at a piece of afterbirth left still in place and causing the damage. There was a noise behind her and she turned to see that Mr. Darcy had collapsed, fainted to the floor, a sound which roused Elizabeth.

"Care for him," asked Elizabeth in a thin, faint voice. Her eyes were dark and half-lidded; her form barely looked human anymore on the bed.

"You need care yourself," said the midwife.

"If I do not survive," said Elizabeth in the smallest of voices, "my daughter needs her father, care for him, send for Fitzwilliam," said Elizabeth.

Mrs. Gordon rang the bell and then satisfied herself that she had staunched the bleeding as best she could. Dr. Walcott still sat in shock, he had at least put his arm down but he seemed unable to move or to speak as though never having encountered blood in his profession, or at least in that quantity. A maid was dispatched to quickly fetch Mr. Fitzwilliam and he must have taken the stairs two by two as there was a knock but a minute later.

"Fitzwilliam?" called Mrs. Gordon through the door.

"Aye," came the ex-Colonel's gruff reply.

"Come," and he entered and looked at the grotesque figure first then at Elizabeth, her eyes closed, her color gone, skin translucent as she lay in the bed the bottom spotted with blood amid the twisted covers.

"The babe!" he cried looking at the midwife.

"She is alive and healthy," assured Mrs. Gordon.

"Mrs. Darcy?" he asked looking at the pallid coloring of Elizabeth and unable to see her draw breath.

"God's will," was the midwife's reply.

He looked again at Elizabeth, but was called back as Mrs. Gordon spoke.

"Please care for Mr. Darcy, it is Mrs. Darcy's particular wish," and it was then that he saw his cousin on the floor.

Darcy's eyes were fluttering, his arms moving slowly and Fitzwilliam reached down to haul him gently upwards. Darcy seemed at first unable to find his feet, so he hooked his arm around his cousin's shoulders and half led, half dragged him from the room and down the hallway.

* * *

A/N: I am breaking the rules, I realize. I know full-well lying-in meant "in," it meant being kept to a room, often without so much as a window cracked and never-the-more to leave until that baby made its appearance but it was too tempting to have her out walking as I got a few plot points made.

Also, while my children insist I am evil, do not give in to despair and find hope.


	39. Chapter 39

Pemberley, April 1818

On the third morning she was conscious enough to take in the silent figure beside her. She recalled how he had often done just that, sat in such a silent and grave attitude beside her or near her before they were married and Elizabeth had learned back then it was because he was tongue-tied around her, a little shy. He had loved her back then yet had not known what to say. It was a sweet memory. Now as she turned her head, the effort hurting her neck, she realized he was sitting vigil beside her. This was a different sort of devotion. He came and sat by her to do his duty to her because he thought she was dying.

As Georgiana had been too devoid of emotion to make any sort of a scene when she discussed Wickham with Elizabeth all those years ago, Elizabeth had no energy to respond to such a realization as he sat by her. Today he held her hand in his but it was held loosely and he was lost in his own thoughts, not looking at her or taking in her presence at all.

He did not weep for her or speak to her; he just came to sit with her. He did not tell her he loved her and beg her not to die or show any sort of grief or sorrow at her plight, her weakness, or her condition. She knew how he expressed his feelings; she could read them on his face or in the set of his body. He did not grieve for her dying. He was concerned about her, it bothered him that she was dying but he did not grieve for _her_. He could not grieve because he no longer loved her.

She felt herself crumple into the bed as though some malignant force was pulling her down into its bowels. Her limbs hurt, ached. Her now empty womb ached. Her heart ached. A baby had not been enough.

The loss of love hits you hard. One puts effort, heart and mind fully into loving and then to have that be not enough wounds you though the scars do not show on the outside. She felt scarred and marked, damaged, as if she had failed him in some way because he no longer loved her. She thought about Jane once asking her if she was sure she, Elizabeth, loved Darcy enough. Perhaps Jane should have queried Darcy if he loved Elizabeth enough. How do you know when to let go of love? Darcy thought she was dying and was letting go, he had let go. Elizabeth had so prized his love for her. When would she let go of her love for him? Was not love supposed to be something that was both given and accepted, love to, love from? Who would she be if Darcy stopped loving her?

* * *

She was so weak she could not lift her head from her pillow. The labor and birth and loss of blood had taken a toll she might not fully be able to pay, it had worn her body in a way she had never known. Her body simply did not function anymore but on a most basic level. She could breathe in and out. Take in a spoonful of food if the spoon was held to her lips. Her body did not otherwise respond to her commands, the muscles languid, having no memory of those fine morning walks she had indulged in for years without number. She could not straighten her sheets if they became untucked, not lift hair from her face when a lock worked loose from her braid.

She could only control her tear ducts. One very small muscle she was completely in charge of and she exercised it daily. She cried over the loss of her body. She cried at her inability to see her daughter for no one seemed to think she was conscious enough to know who she was those first few days as she did nothing but sleep, or sip from a glass if her eyes fluttered open and a companion noted her wakefulness. She cried for company for no one came to see her besides those short visits from her husband. She cried over the pain in her breasts, at the milk leaking from them. She cried.

On the third afternoon, Mrs. Gordon came to see her, clucking like a hen, her usual demeanor subdued, however, as she looked over Elizabeth. She gave no opinion as to her prognosis but when Elizabeth asked, in her faint voice, after she daughter, Mrs. Gordon seemed shocked that she had not seen the baby since her birth. An arrangement was made to bring the child to its mother and Elizabeth found comfort and a lightness to her situation at the prospect of seeing her daughter. They nestled together, mother and daughter, delighting in each other. Elizabeth would not allow the attendants to take the baby and it was not until sleep came over her that the baby was whisked back to the nursery.

* * *

It was a meager existence to lie in bed without the use of her body, with only her mind as a companion. Elizabeth thought a lot about those she loved. She was a mother, had been for days now though she had only seen her daughter, named Amelia by her father, for what felt like an instant. She had a daughter; she had a father and a mother, still living. She was a sister with four sisters, and four relationships to them of different degrees. She and Jane were growing apart—Jane so caught up in her domestic happiness—yet she and Kitty had found a sweet closeness. Elizabeth was also a friend and valued Lady Susanna's friendship, Mrs. Worth's and Mrs. Alport's. And she valued Fitzwilliam.

Did Fitzwilliam still love her? She wondered what he thought of her illness, whether Darcy would allow him to visit her sick bed—such an impropriety. Did he know she was dying? Did he think, like Darcy, that she was dying? Her last cognizant memory of him was his leaning over her to kiss her before the dying coals in the library. She had not wanted that kiss to end. She had wanted his arms around her, his hands again on her body; she had wanted to explore his own body—was desirous for such touch had they not been stopped by that loose shutter. Had that been her undoing? Was she being punished for loving him and desiring him when Darcy had become distant in so many ways, this past year and beyond.

Did Fitzwilliam love her enough to keep her alive? Was it the strength of his love that she was still here on this earth and was not yet lying in state below, a grand funeral being planned; her headstone engraved with some symbolic message.

* * *

Mrs. Parker came to see her. Elizabeth had been happy with her services as housekeeper in the two years since her coming to Pemberley. She was still a young woman but had been married and widowed—the war. Mrs. Parker sat dutifully by her bedside in silence for a full five minutes looking at the haggard face of her mistress, barely any visible sign of a body beneath the covers as she was so thin.

"Mistress," began Mrs. Parker, "I lost Mr. Parker at Waterloo."

Elizabeth nodded her head the slight bit she was able.

"I had three brothers in the army. I nursed two of wounds and lost one," she continued.

Elizabeth blinked her eyes this time in acknowledgment.

"If you will permit me, I would like to nurse you," asked Mrs. Parker.

"I have no wound," said Elizabeth, her voice ever faint.

"But you do need care," insisted the compact, strong and resilient figure next to her.

"I believe…I am…beyond care," replied Elizabeth and turned her eyes away from her visitor, "this, this is…God's will."

"It was God's will that Mr. Parker died of a fever after losing his leg. I do not believe you are beyond hope."

* * *

Elizabeth cried then, cried for small mercies handed her, small comforting hands that would lift her from her pillow, brush her hair, wash her, feed her, clothe her, and move her limbs so they did not forget how. Mrs. Parker would haul her up out of bed and have her stand for as long as she was able before sitting her back, exhausted to lie down or to sleep. Nourishing food was pushed before her; she was scolded if she did not eat it.

While Mr. Darcy came to sit with her and often watched her sleep in the mornings, Mrs. Parker lifted her, fed her, and carried her forward through the weeks and away from death.

* * *

By the end of the first week she could adjust her own covers and move her feet underneath the sheets so she could find some comfort as she lay in bed to heal. By the end of the second week she could sit up in bed, hold herself up and feed herself, if awkwardly. By the end of the third week she could stand upright when she was helped to her feet before needing to sit back down in bed. She could hold her daughter in her hands sometime between that second and third week and that was the tipping point; that she could hold her daughter to her and feed her.

She remained thin. Food was still difficult to get down but her devoted nursemaid cajoled and cared and Mr. Darcy's vigil at one point became simply a visit. There was one point where he came in and he realized there was color in her cheeks; that they were no longer translucent and that his visits were no longer grief visits out of a sense of duty to a wife that was dying but that she was recovering. He had not ever chosen to speak to her but on this morning he did and made some comment and Elizabeth realized that he knew, he noticed. But her heart had become hooded and guarded and she was not sure how much she wanted to learn to love Darcy again.

Mr. Darcy wrote to Georgiana then to share the news that Elizabeth was recovering. He went to visit his daughter to assure himself that she grew. Amelia was still small but her limbs were fattening and the nursery attendants assured him that she fared well. He wrote a letter to Dunchurch then, as head of the family, to officially announce his daughter's birth. He did not say anything about Elizabeth.

Aunt Catherine's letter of congratulations was not that at all. She did not acknowledge the letter, his very short announcement letter. She only cajoled him for failing to come to Rosings for Easter. It seemed she found that his failure to do his duty was a sin in her eyes and she asked why Fitzwilliam would stay at Pemberley as well because of such a little thing as the birth of a child. And then Darcy knew that Fitzwilliam had not gone to Rosings that year. And he wondered then where his cousin was.

Days later he had a letter from Dunchurch, the new Earl Dunchurch, a fact that would take some getting used to, and he asked if he any particulars about Fitzwilliam's whereabouts for it seemed that his cousin had disappeared. He had not gone to Rosings, he was not at his London address, Lady Susanna did not know where he was, Ladbroke and Lady Clara did not know where he was; he had not come to Dunchurch Coombe Hall and the last person who had seen him had been Darcy. And could they let them know where he had gone?


	40. Chapter 40

Spain, June 1818

He could not conceive why he had been called to the room; his first thought was that he had been called to admire Darcy's new son and heir though there had been some slight manner in the deportment of the maid who said that he was wanted immediately which at the back of his mind caused him some concern. She left him at the door; he knocked, his name was called by a voice he did not recognize. He said, "aye," and was called in.

It seemed to him like a battlefield; he instantly took in the bloody figure sitting on a chair over at the bed and saw Elizabeth lying there so pale—her skin so white her body must have been drained of blood, the sheets at her feet stained with it—and his heart dropped to his feet .

"The babe?" he called out and was assured that the baby was alive and healthy and he looked at Elizabeth again and realized he could not see her breathing and the midwife had no comfort to offer him, "God's will." It was then that she called his attention to his cousin and he was told it was _her_ express wish, perhaps it was her _last_ wish that he should care for Darcy. And Darcy was pushing himself up to his knees and he reached over and put an arm to Darcy's shoulder and helped him rise from the ground and they exited the room.

His battle-hardened shoulders carried the weight of his cousin, propped him up as they made their way to the study where he stored his cousin in a chair. He fetched him a glass of brandy; Darcy also had no color, no tone to his limbs, and Fitzwilliam worried that he would even need to press the glass to his lips but Darcy was able to hold the glass steady enough to sip and to swallow and to stare.

"The blood," said Darcy. His cheeks flushed and then the color drained from them again. "The blood."

"Take another sip," said Fitzwilliam. Darcy did. Obeyed. Fitzwilliam did not really want to know that Elizabeth was dying; he had been charged to look after Darcy but he did not think he could handle, he did not think he could bear her death. He had spent so long with images of Darcy dying, clouding his mind, worrying that his love for her would somehow bring about Darcy's death that he had never imagined hers. He thought about Jamie's questions to him and why he had never considered the possibility of her passing.

And it consumed him. For once in his life he felt like he could not face it and do what he was supposed to do. Though he had been charged with a task, it was her last request; he thought he had done the deed in word at least. He had taken Darcy from the room; he had seen to his well-being; he had seen to his recovery—he had plied him with brandy so his cheeks had color. Darcy would recover. The midwife had said that the baby was well and that was what Darcy would want. Darcy who had all the luck, Darcy who had won Elizabeth, Darcy who had his heir. And Fitzwilliam stood up and left.

Walsh was well-used to packing quickly. So they threw things together and departed. Grooms were roused to get his carriage together, his coachman woken, for he had come to Pemberley to bring his cousin to Rosings had not the baby come early and they left in the middle of the night without word, spoken or written. Carriage lamps hung at the front lighting the road as they went.

He did not go to Rosings though he was expected—that would have been doing his duty—and he had had enough of doing his duty, of being the gentleman. That was what he had always done and it had never done him any good. Being a gentleman had always worked out for Darcy and though Darcy now had an heir, it was not a son and he would to be burying a wife. Not all the luck, for Darcy was not always the gentleman. They rode south; he urged his coachman to press the horses as much as they were able, changed them frequently, and they rode south though they did not stop in Kent; they did not stop in London. They rode south until they reached Portsmouth.

That malignant cancerous thing that had eaten at him and consumed his body when he had first learned that Elizabeth could not be his that morning as his father had distractedly read his broadsheet that thing which had been unable to fully consume him; he felt its presence again as he fled Pemberley House. He knew it blackened his entire insides and it eat at the cavity where his heart lay and he thought that there was nothing left; she was dying and he had nothing left and that when she died because she had his heart he would know it and it would finally consume him entirely. And as he fled into the night he could feel it creep tendrils as it tentatively worked its way into that last remaining portion of his being that was left, of his soul. He had so far staved off it eating into that place where his heart resided, yet love had kept it at bay, but now, now it began to take hold even there.

In Portsmouth he dismissed his coachman and groom, gave them enough coin and told them to return home. He tried to dismiss Walsh but Walsh would not leave his side. In the three years since Waterloo, Walsh had come to understand him, had become the one person who truly understood him best and had become his family and the one small part of his blackened heart which remained still of this earth smiled for that loyalty from his companion—he was so much more than a valet.

* * *

Though it took a few days they were able to purchase berths on a ship heading for Lisbon and they left the country and Fitzwilliam thought that he would never see England again.

In Lisbon he could note a few changes, here and there, attempt to keep some hold on to life by pretending that he remembered what the port had looked like and that there had been changes to it since his time there when he had waited at it, waited to return to declare himself to Elizabeth. Lisbon was not his destination though and after obtaining a few supplies, and horses, they set off for Spain.

Walsh had not been in Spain. His regiment had served in the Americas though they had all been part of a larger battalion at Waterloo, so he had no Spanish. Walsh grumbled at the food and he grumbled at the language. Fitzwilliam remembered words here and there but Walsh understood his wanderlust. He knew that Fitzwilliam was running from himself so that the few days of lingering in one place would be replaced with a panicked packing and the moving on he had seen in the past; he knew that there was simply no relief, no amusement, no diversion for his master.

Walsh did write to the cook/housekeeper in London to say where they were, his own sweetheart, back in England; his own display of disloyalty.

* * *

Fitzwilliam drank too much, Walsh looked after him, drinking was a distraction a side-journey, as they worked their way across Spain. Walsh clucked at him some days and yelled on others. Fitzwilliam responded little to either.

Fitzwilliam was bothered by a secret. And he wished, he thought about what Darcy had told him and Fitzwilliam was bothered about how grossly unfair it all was. Darcy always kept his cards close to his chest, but Fitzwilliam could not fathom why Darcy had to share his secret with him. It nagged at him; it had become infectious and was worse than that saber wound that had reopened twice—festering within him as he thought about it—another cancerous thing under his skin he could not get rid of.

His Mamma was right, grief became something that was almost too much to bear and he just thought his existence had become hopeless.

They were honing in close to his goal, arriving at Valencia. He need only take a boat up to Tarragona and then hike up to where the scene of that disastrous battle had been, where he should have died, where they should have buried him and he would not have known so many years of despair and then he would permanently stay there with his fallen comrades, with John Moor. He had a new boot knife and a small pistol and was not sure which was to be best.

He thought about the parallels between his best beloved brother Richard and himself and though he respected and esteemed Radbourne, now the Earl, Richard had always been his most loved sibling. But Richard had been unable to continue on without love in his life so when Anna-Sophia had died Richard had chosen to die with her. Fitzwilliam made his way through Spain as he realized what was compelling him.

He was going to Ordal to die, to fix what had been wrong. He should have died there.

* * *

At Valencia he was surprised when Walsh had two letters, one was for Walsh, from Mrs. Keep, the housekeeper, the other was from his mother. He had not written a soul since he had fled Pemberley the night that babe was born. He was greatly surprised with the missive from his Mamma and he looked to Walsh for some explanation and Walsh shrugged it off saying he had written to Mrs. Keep who must have shared their credentials with the Countess.

He opened the letter.

"Dearest Edward,

I have always worried; I always feared that the Peninsula would be your undoing. It seemed so unfair that you were the third son, that it would be you who would receive the commission, that it would be you who would be sent into the army. You had such a loving nature as a small child and I see parallels between you and Jamie and when I hear Ladbroke already discussing a commission for young James as if that were his fate that I wonder what we do to our sons that we only assume to know what they are to do with their lives based on the order of their birth and not on their nature or their character. You have disappeared and fled the shores of your birth and I could claim ignorance and ask you why, without a word to anyone, you are suddenly in Spain where you experienced years of fighting but I believe I know the reason. You have twice shared or at least hinted at the difficulties of your heart and I have heard about Amelia's birth; I have heard about Elizabeth's difficult recovery."

He simply stared then at that word "recovery" it was not _death_ but _recovery_.

"And I, as a mother, find it difficult to advise my son, my grown son, what to do, but you cannot run away and I think that you simply have to declare yourself."

He paused to think and ran a hand across his chin.

"Edward, come home. Come home to England, come home to us. You feel lost to us, distant and I want you back. I do not understand why you would return to Spain though part of me fears that I do know. It was there you were a simple man before those wounds left their marks on you and before your heart led you to become blackened and sickened on the inside. Come home and declare yourself to Elizabeth. Do not choose a path of darkness and bitterness. Follow your heart. Tell her. Ask her."

Elizabeth was not dead. His mother's note said nothing of getting past her death but to come home and declare himself fully to her. She had not died though she had looked so near death that night—Elizabeth lived.

There was so little left of him to feel that he had little inside to respond to his mother's letter. His response was typically male, to drink, and though it was but afternoon he drank, seeking a tavern and whatever local alcohol was to be had, and he drank. He woke in a bed, Walsh sitting in a chair beside him. The room stank; apparently all that drink had come back up. His head ached and he threw the covers back, his bare feet finding the floorboards of the room. Walsh looked at him with disapproval and disdain, letting him know what he thought of the past evening, the past day, the past two months with that single glance.

Walsh only watched as Fitzwilliam opened the door and in the darkness—with no idea of the time—walked out of the inn and towards the sea. He worked at the buttons on his waistcoat, Walsh had stripped him only of his boots and his jacket, and finished as he reached the quayside. He tore the garment off and threw it never to see it again. He stripped off his shirt and threw it away then he dove off the dock and into the blackened and frigid waters.

It shocked him but that had been his intent—to shock—to reawaken, rebirth him into some other form, those salty, cold dark waters. Spain had been where so much of his adult life had been—six years of campaigns and battles, of wounds, glories of battles won, despair over the pain and wounds and deaths of comrades. And the hope he had found there, one that had morphed and changed, almost been lost, had but died to a small diamond shaped piece in his body but had been found again and reanimated his being—his soul—as he swam in the dark a few lights of the port twinkling to welcome him back to life.

* * *

They worked their way back to Lisbon. He would not wander anymore. He knew his mind as surely as he had known he would not sell his commission and go to fight Napoleon, three years ago, a decision made in but a few minutes' worth of thought which others might have considered rash. He would find his time and place and tell Elizabeth how he felt. He must consider _his_ happiness.

That secret Darcy had shared that penultimate night did ease his mind. Darcy had admitted to a mistress. He could not fathom why his cousin had shared such a thing if only it was as some sport he indulged in and they might share experiences, as if shooting. He had mentioned it in just such a manner. I have gone shooting this morning, bagged three pheasants and a rabbit, and I have a mistress. It was not such an egregious thing overall. Many men had mistresses, Fitzwilliam even knew of clergyman with one. Men discussed their mistresses just as often as they discussed their wives. The most devoted family man might yet still keep a mistress, yet in this case, though he still thought Darcy was that devoted family man, it helped in Fitzwilliam's own intentions to Elizabeth. Fitzwilliam was not sure if Darcy found his wife's body unappealing or if he was concerned for his heir, but he had found himself a mistress while Elizabeth had worked on creating that heir for Pemberley.

Fitzwilliam had told her once he loved her but never asked anything of her; never stated his need of her; never asked her to love him. That was what both ate at him and what he needed to do now as he and Walsh rode through Spain. Walsh was happy to be returning home. Fitzwilliam had not thought beyond his own needs and not realized the devotion of Walsh to his cook/housekeeper, Mrs. Keep, and he felt guilty that Walsh was so devoted to him that he had left his own happiness behind to follow Fitzwilliam and care for him, and in writing to his sweetheart had saved Fitzwilliam's life for Mrs. Keep had shared his travels with the Dowager Countess. He would need to settle a pension or an annuity on his devoted companion as soon as he returned to England.


	41. Chapter 41

London, September 1818

Fitzwilliam bathed and shaved as soon as he returned home leaving Walsh to a happy reunion with Mrs. Keep, after being gone for more than three months.

It was not possible to run to her to declare himself. She was not well, barely just beyond death's door; she would not be ready to run away with him.

Barker House had a number of visitors that morning—it was Lady Susanna's at-home morning—and Fitzwilliam sat through the hour with impatience. He compared Susanna to their aunt, Lady Catherine, noticing a certain similarity in how they liked to be the center of a group of admirers, asking and giving advice. Lady Susanna would probably be mortified at the comparison.

Lady Duffy and her plump and yet tall daughter Lady Catriona Duffy lingered and Fitzwilliam thought he would never be done with talking to the young woman. She was not well-read, not well-traveled but did hint she enjoyed the theater and riding. Fitzwilliam was not sure if his sister was attempting to pair them up or if the encounter was random—an assessment simply by mother and daughter based on his height relative to Lady Catriona Duffy's. Their good manners finally made them take their leave after their half hour was completed.

"Well, Edward, what do you think of Lady Catriona? Just as plain as you, about the same height. I could see Lady Duffy take stock of you the instant you set foot in here," said his sister.

"So you were not pairing me up?" he asked.

"How was I to know you would call today?" answered his sister. "I have not seen you in four months at least!"

He said nothing.

"I believe your heart has been elsewhere for years," she ventured. He looked at Mrs. Heene who had just rung to have the tea things cleared.

"I will go," said Mrs. Heene, and left quickly and quietly. He sat.

"I did not suppose you cared to hear my tale," he said looking at his youngest sister, "I tried to tell it to you once and decided you were so happy that I did not wish to ruin your happiness with the telling."

She was the youngest of them, had followed them around at their play yet was the most secretive out of the five of them—they knew the least about her. Had not bothered to know her, only welcomed her prying eyes into their own business.

"Are you happy Susanna?" he asked, curious suddenly.

"Yes, perfectly so," she answered.

"Are you ever to marry? To find a partner in life?" He leaned forward with his hands on his knees.

"I have my companions, Grace and Mercy, and we are content with each other—this house and the life we have in it," and she folded her hands in her lap to illustrate her point. How simple it sounded though he could not assume that.

"I am truly pleased you have found contentment." He hesitated then, "I have over-stayed my welcome, I will go."

"Edward, you have not shared your troubles," said his sister.

"I feel it would be wrong to do so, to burden your happy life," he wanted to speak to Elizabeth, needed help and yet when it came to asking for help he felt forlorn in the asking.

"It is because I am that I can bear another's burden do you not see?" she argued.

He wanted news from Pemberley. He had no word from Darcy or any word from his former ward, Georgiana. Fitzwilliam supposed that with his flight to Spain no one realized he had returned. He looked at her expectant face.

"I have loved a woman for well over five years now," he began.

She waited.

"She is married to another, though she was not when I first met her," he continued.

"Why did you not offer for her then?" asked Lady Susanna.

"Because I am a gentleman because I could not countenance the thought of a return to the Peninsula after a one day marriage behind me for we had just a little time together and when I came back she had married another," he explained.

She thought for many minutes. "Will she separate from her husband and come to you?"

"I…I thought she might have considered it once, I spoke of moving, leaving England and lost my nerve in asking her to come with me. Now, his eyes glazed over, "all the time coming back from Spain it had seemed so easy, that it would be possible. But it is complicated," his voice grew dim.

She said nothing and waited.

"There is a baby," Lady Susanna took in a quick breath, "Her first child with her husband."

"It is no wonder Mamma worries about you all the time," and she pursed her lips together.

"Mamma wrote to me in Spain to return home;" then with a softer voice, "she told me to declare myself."

"I am pleased Mamma called you back to us," and her voice spoke volumes.

"Have you heard anything about Elizabeth?" he asked getting to his point at last.

"Elizabeth!" she declared as realization dawned. "Elizabeth Darcy!" The entire scenario and its complexity whirled through her brain.

"Have you heard how she fares? No word seems to come out of Pemberley anymore or from Georgiana or de Bourgh. I had no letters waiting for me at the house when I returned."

" 'Tis true." She replied. "I have not had a letter from Elizabeth since March."

His desperation for news and the length of the morning's conversation were getting to him. "Do you have idea any what is going on with her?"

"I have had a letter from Mrs. de Bourgh." He had to think for a minute that she meant Georgiana. "Because of her, condition, she has taken to confining herself at home, rather early and unnecessarily if you ask me, but Georgiana is the type to over-react in response to a situation." She moved a little in her chair. "I fear the news of Amelia's birth has frightened the poor dear so she and de Bourgh are taking no chances. Georgiana barely leaves the house, walks the hallways of Ayford and is only tempted outside if the weather is absolutely fair."

"And?" he almost cried in frustration.

"She mentioned that they are to finally christen the baby at Pemberley though it has been seven months. You would think the vicar would rush over to do it at the house but it was not the baby who was ill. So I think we can infer that Elizabeth has recovered enough to go to church."

"But it is not to be a large family ceremony. No invitations have been sent out?" he asked.

"No." She looked thoughtful.

"Susanna?" he prompted with a harsher tone to his voice as wished for news.

"I wonder if I might write to Catherine," she answered though she frowned at him and his tone.

"Aunt Catherine? Whyever for?" he looked dismayed.

"No, Elizabeth's sister, Catherine. She married a vicar in a village a few miles over. She came to London once or twice before she married. Do you recall her? I suppose she would have news."

"Please do," he begged.

* * *

Catherine was surprised to hear from Lady Susanna but wrote back that yes, Amelia was to be christened on the first of November. It was to be just a small, local affair. The child was full of life and had dragged Elizabeth back to life with her, explained Catherine. "She is still thin of person, but her joy for exercise has done her well and you could not imagine the difference six months has made."

* * *

Perhaps the reason no word had been heard from Georgiana was because she was delivered of her child, a son. His labor was difficult, over a day in coming and she needed her own time, as her sister-in-law Elizabeth had needed, to recover from the delivery.

De Bourgh did send out notices to announce his son's arrival to all of the cousins. Rather than a christening at their local church, near Ayford where they lived, the couple wished they might do it at Rosings or at Pemberley. Anne's health and Lady Catherine's temperament meant that the Rosings consideration had to be dropped but with word that the mistress of Pemberley was recovering there were hopes to hold a grand celebration for Stanford de Bourgh's birth at Pemberley in the New Year. Georgiana especially liked the idea of having it at the Pemberley Chapel where she herself had been christened. Darcy agreed to the scheme provided Elizabeth continued to mend.


	42. Chapter 42

Lambton, November 1818

Elizabeth walked out of the church carrying her daughter. There had been something fitting about its being All Saints Day this morning as if all the blessings of all the saints in heaven had been placed on her daughter, Amelia. Whatever might happen to Elizabeth in the future, whatever might be her fate, she knew her daughter would fare well. Catherine Watson had stood as godmother and Mr. Philip de Bourgh had been Darcy's wish for godfather, though Elizabeth had thought that Fitzwilliam had been the most obvious choice.

She had wondered what had happened to Fitzwilliam; she had learned he had disappeared the night Amelia was born from little items the servants and Mrs. Parker had dropped. Darcy never spoke of him and when she was finally well enough to out of bed and join him at table she had asked. He replied that Fitzwilliam had traveled overseas. Perhaps he had decided to move to the West Indies. Darcy would not speak more of Fitzwilliam, she wondered if they had quarreled that night. She wondered what they might have quarreled about. Darcy did not forgive easily.

She was fulfilled and delighted in her daughter in each breath Amelia drew in, each smile, each laugh her daughter shared. The small attempts by her daughter to imitate whatever those around her were doing; in a hurry, impatient to sit up, to grasp as though to paint as her mother did, she would perhaps crawl far sooner than anyone wished. She was certainly a Bennet, acted like one, though she looked like a Darcy as near as she could tell from the one small infant portrait of Georgiana.

Before she even felt well enough Elizabeth had her charcoal to paper and sketched her daughter. Paint was still beyond her, but she sketched the fattening cheeks, the small dimple on the left side, the constantly laughing eyes which turned easily to indignation when Amelia was frustrated. How she could never appreciate the delights of an infant before, Elizabeth was not certain, and her daughter and a pencil and paper were all that she had needed once she could stand and move about.

That she had almost died and did not seemed something Darcy could not forgive. As if he had closed his heart to her that first fortnight as he had sat vigil next to her bedside dutifully seeing her off this world, but she had not passed over; loosed her hold and let go. It was a return to the beginning of their marriage, after her attack at Richard Fitzwilliam's funeral. He came no more to her bed—not that she was capable of receiving him for months—but this time he had no affection to display to her in their quiet moments together. He was distant now, polite but distant.

She was a passionate woman if she admitted it to herself. Elizabeth missed his attentions; she had grown to love him, it was not as easy to give up that love now that it was no longer returned. It had been a difficult year and she worked on returning to health thanks to Mrs. Parker and Amelia. They were husband and wife but she thought of the loneliness even before Amelia's birth; they had been growing apart for months, even the year before. Pemberley remained a glass castle. She still tried to get out when she could, find exercise though she could not find companionship.

She had been chaperoning Georgiana in London and he had been so often at Pemberley it was a wonder that they had ever come by Amelia. He had given up on loving her, perhaps, a while back. Whatever bond they had seemed to have broken.

She began to let go, though it made her lonelier than ever. She let go of his love of her that she had welcomed. He had once esteemed her, valued her. He once said he loved her wit and her intelligence and yet after their first year he did not speak to her anymore, seek her opinion about subjects; as though he knew now all she had to say. He seemed to take offense when she teased him about something; he found he did not see the joke with her eyes, from her point of view. It made him shy away from her more rather than laugh. She had been grateful to him for what he had done for Lydia. Elizabeth had learned to love him because of that. Now that was gone and she was, perhaps, only esteemed by him because she had given him an heir. But it seemed he did not love his heir as he should.

Darcy seemed to have little interest in Amelia. Elizabeth tried to not be disappointed by his disinterestedness in his daughter, he did not ask after her or her well-being very often. She was not sure if he cared not for babies, or for daughters or if the estate, always his focus—he was forever on horseback—was his precedence. Should it have been a son would he have reacted differently? She did not know.

Elizabeth walked out of the Lambton church, the worn, warm-colored stone of the old medieval church reflecting no sunlight or heat though there were blue skies that day, so unusual for a Derbyshire November day. The side entrance of the church led straight into the fenced off graveyard, as if to warn parishioners of their eventual fate, though the path led through a small wooden gate out into the village. Edward Fitzwilliam stood by the gate looking at her and Amelia as the family filled out after her, Reverend Worth coming along at the end.

There was a lot of small talk, thank yous to be said as neighbors came to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy and offer their congratulations for the baby. The time seemed to drag on to Elizabeth as she wished to only go speak to Fitzwilliam who did not come to join the group. She did see Mr. Philip de Bourgh walk off to speak to him, but Darcy stayed by her side as their neighbors kept up the congratulations until the vicar cut them all off with some sort of nodding of the head and waving them all back to their homes for their Sunday dinners.

She and Darcy went to speak to him at last. They all spoke politely, a little too formally for cousins who had been separated for half a year. Fitzwilliam offered his congratulations to the pair over the striking beauty of their child, the glow of her cheeks; and an equal glow covered Elizabeth's from such praise.

* * *

Fitzwilliam had been warned of her thinness and pallor; that her ordeal had changed her but he could see only his Elizabeth, her dark eyes just an enchanting, her spirit just an animated. A lock of her hair had turned gray in front, a small soft gray curl against her forehead as though an outward symbol of her trials.

"Come back to the house," she had called as they stood in the cold November sun. "We are to have a small dinner and can lay another plate." Catherine was to return to her own family so it was a small party with Philip de Bourgh doing most of the talking as they walked to the carriages. Fitzwilliam agreed and rode in his own to Pemberley.

He wove a tale of boredom and adventure striking him to account for his foray to Spain and back. De Bourgh was largely cut from the same cloth as his brother, ever practical and fired question after question about such a wild adventure on Fitzwilliam's part.

Darcy listened for the most part in silence but Fitzwilliam found Elizabeth listening with rapt attention.

"It sounds like a rough trip, not at all a Grand Tour sort of one," she remarked.

"It was rough at times," he admitted, "but the sort of trip I needed to take. I could not simply see the sights of the place and then be done. I needed to, forgive me, to exercise a few demons, by revisiting some former places on the Peninsula," he stopped there but he could tell that Elizabeth understood him and recalled a number of their past conversations between them.

* * *

She wore a pelisse and then wrapped herself in a shawl against any further cold. It did still bother her more than it had, the weather, and the wind, and she could not stay out-of-doors as long as she once could. Derbyshire was colder and wetter than Hertfordshire so she had been limited to the Pemberley gardens now while she recovered.

Darcy and de Bourgh had ridden out after the meal in want of exercise but Fitzwilliam looked for Elizabeth and found her in the sheltered rose gardens. She looked tired as if she should have laid down instead of seeking exercise. Such was her nature. He called to her. He could not deny the light in her eyes at seeing him.

"Fitzwilliam!" she called out and she held out her hand and he tucked it onto his arm. "I am so glad you have come. It worried me to hear you had gone away." She looked up at him, stopping to drop his arm to look at him fully, taking in the small changes in his face. The tanned skin from his time in Spain, a small crease forming above the nose and yet the same eyes. "I feared you would never come back," she frowned, "that I would never see you again." She choked on the words surprising both of them.

"Elizabeth—Lizzy," he looked at her and held out his arm which she took again and he led her to a stone bench and saw to her placement and then went to sit across from her on its twin. Naked rose shrubs framed her on either side—it was probably a delightful spot in the summer but bleak and gray now. He stared into her eyes which were expectant, waiting to hear what he had to say.

"There is so much I have wanted to say to you. I have rehearsed it in my head, over and over, and now I feel as though words fail me as I see you," he began. She was thin; he suddenly saw her frailty and he faltered as to his intentions, his right to ask her to leave Darcy and come to him.

"You have been gone for a long time and Darcy would not speak of it," she began.

He had so much to explain and it all passed over his face; was to be read there. "No one knew where I was. I fear…" and he stopped and looked over at her, tense and uncertain. She wanted to reach over and comfort him and was glad, in a way; they were parted by the walkway.

"I did not know you were gone," she said drawing her shawl together at the front, "I somehow thought you were still with us, that Darcy had barred you from my room or from Pemberley, but yet you kept me alive." Tears fell and she hugged her shawl to her shoulders in a tighter embrace. "Darcy has given me up. He no longer loves me," and the tears came even more, "I believe he has not forgiven me for living." She buried her head in her hands and wept, hunched over.

The moisture in his mouth was wicked away as he watched her cry. Her despair, her sorrow and unrest pouring out of her as he watched her hunched shoulders move as she wept. The hurt in her was plain to read and he could sense something, like an animal, caged. She looked back up at him.

"I feel so alone anymore, Fitzwilliam. I have been lonely for a long time now, more than a year. And now Pemberley has become not my home but another isolated island like Darcy House was in London. I had not realized I would miss Georgiana and her antics, her selfish ways but…" she faltered and looked at him. "Darcy is no companion and I am left alone." A guest of wind swept through then and seemed to take her tears with it and clear her face. "If it was not for Amelia, my most precious daughter," and a mournful cry escaped her then, "I do not know how I could bear it. Darcy used to be more companionable once, but no longer."

He looked at her once again seeing his beautiful Elizabeth, beautiful but sad.

How did he explain that Darcy likely still had a mistress and found her company more interesting? His chest hurt at the idea that Darcy had done anything to hurt her. But, perhaps, he had too. He had not acted when he should have all those years ago. He had sworn he was not going to regret that though. But he had thought she was dying, had left assuming she was, he failed her in that respect. He had not loved her enough then. He was just like Darcy, assumed she was dying and Fitzwilliam had walked, rode, and ran as he simply waited for her to be parted from this world. He faltered as he stared at her with the dead rose canes standing guard beside her; he did not deserve her. He could not declare himself to her. She had found her way back to health and life but not because of his help or love.

"I feel as though I stand upon some dreadful brink and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet but whether there is light for me I cannot tell. I cannot turn to seek it," she said. "I still do not know what to do," there seemed to be a grave tenderness to her eyes, "it there is anything to do, if there are hands before me, held out to me to take a hold of," and her eyes were on some distant point. Her despair was clearly to be found on her face and he thought he would break in two. She suddenly began coughing which racked her body and once she began she could not stop.

"You should go rest, you are still not well," he urged.

"I have not seen you for so long!" she cried as she coughed. "I had more I wanted to speak to you about," and she coughed ever more.

"You should rest, Elizabeth," he urged again and stood to make his point.

"It has been a long day," she acknowledged and stood, mirroring him. He came to offer his arm. They had a foray towards a declaration but did not get there. Some darkness had overtaken him and stopped him. He escorted her back inside, insisting that she rest.

He stayed to tea and supper but left the next day.

* * *

He had gone to the edge of the pit, seen the darkness within, been called back, been cleansed, reanimated and returned home only to find she had depended on him and he was not there. She herself had come to the edge of a pit, seen death and been brought back. They had both faced a darkness unescapable and returned, found light.

She still struggled though; she still had not found all the strength she needed to be reawakened again. She struggled in her winter to find sunlight: was there any to be had? As though she floundered in a dark cave of sadness and as she said unable to take hands held out to her.

Fitzwilliam fled Pemberley with his declaration unsaid, ashamed he had been weak that spring night, and thought her dying. He spent many a long night considering his faults, his inability to see what had been before him at that moment and how he had reacted. He had been weak; he had not acted, or he had not acted as he should. He should not have run and assumed that when he saw her form so still on that bed, those bloodied sheets that she was dying. It was not in character with the way he normally conducted himself but the entire situation was one so different than he had ever been asked to face.

There was no advice to be heard or heeded when forced with the idea of losing her, the one creature you love more than any other. How does anyone handle those dark days of grief? It is like forever walking in a shadowy gorge, steep ragged walls, attempting to find a way out to some small light. He had recovered, found some resiliency after Richard's death, after Elizabeth's marriage in work, in comfort from his family. Losing his father was still raw and a deep shadowed pain. Then her illness, her flirtation with death, but she had not died yet it felt like grief and recovering from a loss, that dark void, grief's dark void to him.

He thought of swimming in the sea and finding himself and finding his purpose again and realized he could forgive himself for his weakness that day. He could have renewed purpose; tell her how much she had brought him back from the edge of the pit.

He sat in in his London house and saw the happiness of Walsh and Mrs. Keep and he was reminded that love was the most important thing. He should not, could not, despair for having been weak and imperfect—for having been human—and a man. He had run thinking her dying. But he loved her; he was different than Darcy. Her living mattered; he loved her, he still loved her, he would forever love her and he would see her again; declare himself, tell her he loved her, ask her to love him back. A second chance.


	43. Chapter 43

Pemberley, Jan 1819

The invitations went out to every distant cousin for Stanford's christening. Every Darcy, Fitzwilliam, de Bourgh, Selbourne or other cousin who had married into the family. Friends were invited as well and Elizabeth, still feeling shaky some days wondered at the number of visitors. They had never been so many as were anticipated to come under Pemberley's roof for this christening. Many would be doubled-up and extra staff would need to be hired from Lambton.

Georgiana was in her element and arrived days early to help with the preparations for which Elizabeth was grateful. The Chapel was cleaned and decorated; Mr. Worth's time was procured though Georgiana even hinted that she thought her son should be christened by a Bishop. Elizabeth gave in to her every wish.

* * *

He found her out walking early. She had a favorite walk, far away from the house and the bustle and activity that were to be found within its confines.

"I am pleased to see you are keeping up with your exercise," he remarked.

"I feared I would not get away today so I snuck out early," her eyes twinkled and he recalled earlier, happier times between them. She looked well and had improved in health in two months.

"May I join you?" he asked.

"Please do." And they walked together and they both then thought of that time, those walks at Rosings that first spring they had met. They spoke about the preparations for Stanford's christening and the full day of events.

"Do not tax yourself, Elizabeth," he said suddenly.

She stopped to look up at him. "You always care for me, Fitzwilliam," and she pulled her hand from its place on his forearm and snaked it up high on his arm, hesitated as thought to reach any further. He put an arm on her waist and she then brought both hands on his chest and looked at him, pleaded with him with her eyes. He enveloped her form within his arms and kissed her. He had so longed to hold her that he took more pleasure in that, the sense of her body in his arms, than of the kissing of her lips. She broke off and clung to him and they stood holding each other.

"I have thought of you holding me since you last kissed me," she said. "I wanted to touch you that night, to hold you and to never let you go."

His hands tightened around her even more, he did not want to ever let her go.

"Come to me Elizabeth," he said speaking into the top of her hair, "be with me."

Her arms stiffened a little under his own. She shifted her head from lying on one cheek to the other on his chest. She finally leaned her head back to look up at him.

"Is that a single night or for longer?" she asked.

"Forever," he declared looking down at her and yet tightening his grip.

She lay her head back down on his chest.

"Forever," she repeated softly.

His arm came to hold her, if possible, even more tightly.

"I do not know that I can do that, Fitzwilliam," she said and her hands gripped him tightly then, "there is much…" and her voice trailed off and she brought her hands in to rest beside her cheeks so she could lean against him and he held her.

Forever meant leaving her husband of five years, it meant scandal, it meant losing friends: how would her family react? She had a daughter now and could not be parted from her, ever. Mothers had no rights in terms of the courts and parentage. She could not lose the one precious thing that had kept her alive the last ten months and spurned her on to live when she had been so close to the grave.

"I cannot do forever," she said and leaned back to look at him, and hesitated staring at his face. A face she had so admired for years "but I, …we can share one night."

His shoulders sagged but he kept his grip on her his face drooped, sad, to ask for forever and only receive one day was a blow and he paused and stood for the space of a multitude of heartbeats and then bent down to kiss her again.

"Come to me tonight when it is dark and dead," he whispered as he laid his cheek against hers. "I will wait for you no matter what hour of the night, even if it be closer to the morning. Come to me tonight," he said, pleading.

"I will," she said reaching up to stroke his chin. "I will come."

* * *

She was ushered inside the door as soon as she knocked. They stood just there, on the lee side of the locked door, looking at each other. Both were robed in dressing gowns, Elizabeth had come in her bare feet to ensure she was silent as she passed through the dark hallways. He drank in the whole of her before holding out his hand.

"Come warm those feet by the fire," he said and escorted her to the grate where the coals did make a welcome relief of warmth for her feet; she backed against the fireplace holding up her soles to the glowing warmth and feeling a slight chill run through her body as her toes warmed and her excitement grew.

He had retained her hand and brought it up to his lips while he watched her before the fire. His free hand sought her other one and he ran his thumbs over her palms as he watched her. "Warm enough?" he asked. She nodded and then he clasped her around the waist and brought her to him in a crushing hug, lowering his face for a kiss. Her hands dragged him to her, her hands on his gown, awake and wanting.

He ended his kiss and pressed his forehead to hers with what might be described as a growl. His hand stroked the side of her face, "you are the most beautiful woman I know, Elizabeth, and have haunted my thoughts and dreams for nigh on six years," he ran his hands over her back and she shivered with delight and desire. He growled again, "you cannot know how you have haunted me," and he plastered her to him as though he could force them from two beings into one from sheer strength. She gasped and he let her go fearful he was crushing her.

"I am happy we have this night," her voice was darker, richer, as she reached out to run a hand along his whiskered chin. "I have often thought of you, and wondered if things had been different," her hand snaked to his neck and her fingers fanned out, the tips rubbing at the base of his throat. "Let us to bed," she said boldly running her hand down his chest underneath his dressing gown—he wore nothing underneath she realized with a shock. Fitzwilliam's broad chest was dark with hair that she could see and initially Elizabeth had expected it to be coarse but those exploratory fingers discovered it was silky to the touch and teased her fingers. He had far more hair on his chest than Darcy who had only a few dark strands in the middle. She stroked his chest, lost in the feel of it when he brought his hand up to cover hers.

"Let us to bed," he repeated her words, and he walked backwards from her, tugging at her hand as he led her towards the bed. Because of Stanford's christening the guest rooms were all being used and Fitzwilliam was in a lesser-used chamber. The dimensions of the room were small and the bed allotted to the unmarried cousin was miniscule in width. Elizabeth thought that it must hardly fit Fitzwilliam's frame and she wondered how they two would fit and then left off wondering when he stopped at the bed's edge to envelop her in his arms for a kiss that chased away any lingering doubts she might have about their coming together.

He tugged at her dressing robe belt with purpose and then worked on his own, unlooping it and then removing his garment and throwing it to a nearby chair before sitting down on the sheets which lay folded back and inviting. She had knotted her belt so had to work to untie it and then remove her gown; she handed it to him and it joined his on the chair. She was wearing a nightgown, as she always did, but she pulled at ties and the gown slipped off though this she placed at the end of the bed.

Elizabeth wondered at their ability to be so comfortable together—it had been at least a year for her to overcome her maidenly shyness with Darcy and not wish to always wear her nightgown or shift when they were alone together. As soon as her nightgown was off a hand came up to stroke her hip while another ran remarkably light fingers down her back, both hands then cupped her behind and lifted her over him and into the bed, straightening himself beside her, pulling covers over them for warmth and not because of any shyness. They did fit, nestled together in the narrow bed; he had her in his arms, a hand stroking her back as they kissed. Her hands continued to explore his chest and ran over the bumps and welts and the multitude of scars that spoke to her of his battle experiences.

She pushed him onto his back and moved over him, tracing her fingers down the long scar from his left shoulder to his belly over to his leg; he gasped aloud at her touch—more from pleasure than for any other reason—and smiled though Elizabeth wore a frown. "It is providence you did not die from such a wound," she placed her hand on his shoulder again rubbing the scarred tissue; his hands were all over her body where it leaned against him and he cupped a beautiful unmarked breast in his large hand, and so in contrast to his own imperfect skin. He pulled her close and lost himself in consuming her lips with his own and imprinting her body to his. He pulled back when her breath came in equally ragged ones as his and he slid her back beside him, maneuvering their bodies on the small bed. She ran her hands over him, touching him boldly and he growled as he climbed over her, his kisses descending beyond her lips and cheeks to her throat and chest and belly as his hands danced attendance on her; she called out though she muffled herself instantly against his shoulder. "I have need of you," she whispered to his ear as she drew him down to her body.

The pleasure of him was so great it made tears dance in her eyes which were chased away as ardor mounted with his deep and deliberate movements, his exploring hands and his tongue and lips which nibbled at her own with intensity. She was caught off-guard when her pleasure came, rolling from her loins to her extremities she felt as though it had tangible form and burst from her fingertips and toes and out of the tips of her breasts. She could only moan and hold onto his broad chest, her legs wrapped around his hips but useless as she came. "Elizabeth," he croaked and moved rapidly then, frenzied, his breathing so ragged there was no distinction between the intake and exhaling and suddenly he pulled free of her with a growl and came against her at the crook of her thigh and belly groaning with a cry, as though in tears, and then collapsed, his heavy weight on top of her for a heartbeat before he pulled his knees up under him to support his weight. His elbows tucked beside her body to kiss her with the gentlest kiss she had ever received. "I love you," he said and then he tucked his head against her chest, between her breasts with her heart pounding against his ear, his body making a tent over her; their limbs entwined. She pushed the hair from his brow, wiped the tears from his eyes, adjusted the covers over them and they fell asleep.

The coals had died to the faintest glow and no light peered from behind the window curtains. The pair had rearranged themselves in the bed, he was on his stomach his leg between hers, an arm around her waist and yet still fitting within the confines of the small dimensions of the bed. She stirred, the ropes creaking as she moved to try to pull her leg free from where it was pinned. His arm tightened its grip around her and he growled into the pillow.

"It is not the dawn," he said.

"I must go before then, before the servants are up though I might rather stay," she reached up to stroke his back.

"It is still the night," he cantered up off of his belly to gaze at her, "we agreed to one night, I still have minutes, hours left to drink you in," and he tented over her again, his hands at her shoulders to kiss her; she smoothed her hands over his chest and back then she pushed against him, gently.

"I must go before the servants are up," her hand was on his right shoulder, caressing the puckered scar there so different from the smoother saber scar on the other shoulder. "What made this scar?" she whispered.

"Grapeshot," he looked down at her, ready to release her though his heart cried at the idea and his mind ran scenarios of how they could be together again, be together for ages.

The very tips of her fingers traced the outline of the puckered scar and her other hand came up to pull his hair from his brow. Clasping the back of his neck, she pulled his face to hers "I would have you mount me again," and captured his lips with hers. He pulled his second leg in between hers. Their pleasure was fierce and quick; she cried gasping tears at her element and he again pulled free of her with a mighty groan as his seed spilled on her belly; his kisses sucked her breath away as she could feel the heat from his body between them as he held his weight a few inches up off of hers. He touched his forehead to hers as they fought to calm their breathing.

"I must go," she said yet again her arms still clasped around him. Elizabeth closed her eyes and ran her hands over his back and arse and as far as they would reach on his legs, imprinting his body on them, then she slid her hands to his chest and pushed against him. He pulled himself up and stood beside the bed holding out a hand to her and she set her feet on the floor, rising with his help. Her nightgown was pulled on, the ribbons tied and it clung to her belly where it was still sticky. He stood with her dressing gown open to help her dress as if it were a pelisse and he was not an unclothed footman; she tied it loosely and turned to him.

"I love you, Fitzwilliam," and stared up at him.

"Can you not call me Edward, or Ned as my Mamma and sisters do?" he asked.

"That would be a dangerous precedence; I must call you Fitzwilliam," and she held out her hand.

"I would not have you go," his voice croaked. He did not take her offered hand. She let her arms hang back at her sides and frowned. She lifted her hand again but this time to his chin and ran it along the edge, his stubble bristling under her fingers.

"I have loved you just as long," and then she turned to the door, unlocked it, and with soft feet walked back to her own room. He said nothing else to her nor did he make any other movement.

In her own chamber she first pulled back the sheets on her bed, crawled beneath them and then rolled from one side to the other to dislodge them enough that they looked as if she had slept on them. Elizabeth then rang for her maid and ordered a bath.

* * *

He was not in a hurry to pack and leave. Guests departed after the ceremony, some immediately, some stayed for a day or two. He was a gentleman now with nowhere to go, no particular home even to return to; he could claim leisure. He knew he waited to waylay her again, to plead with her to come away with him. He felt he could not leave without her and must persuade her, whatever the cost.

She was painting in watercolors. She had promised an infant portrait of Stanford to his parents so Elizabeth had hidden away. Somehow he knew he could find her alone in her studio.

He coughed to get her attention from his place in the doorway. She put down her brush and welcomed him with her eyes though he thought she was cautious as well. Cautious of the reason for his visit.

"I have finally reckoned my life to be like Job's," he began. "That I am to be set trial after trial and am simply expected to endure them, to be a patient gentleman," his voice was dark and heavy. He came more into the room. "But even Job was not forever patient and cried out to God to ask why and when I saw you covered in blood that day I had to ask why." He shut the door.

"I said before that women too can suffer, though I think my trials were small to what you went through," she answered.

"I could not bear to have you be parted from me in death—I admit I thought you were dying—so I returned to Spain to die," her eyes widened then, "but I could never sense you actually leaving." He took a step forward. "You have my heart—if you slipped away it would have died with you and I could never sense that," he stared at her. "Then my mother wrote to me and called me back home."

"I had not realized _I_ drove you back to Spain," she whispered.

"Like Job preserving myself from falling into the pit or perishing in battle under a sword, you have brought me life and light and turned me back so many times I do not know how I shall ever be able to thank you in this lifetime for all that you have done for me," he faltered. He took another step, widened his eyes to try not to weep.

"I have seen the gates of death; I have seen the deepest darkness, my path back to life led to you. You have my soul aflame, you are my light." Tears welled up then and fell. "You have revived me and restored me whenever I simply but thought of you," he gasped. "My heart and my flesh want you; I am faint with a longing I can no longer deny." His tears fell hard then as he looked at her.

"What is my sin that I love you, to wish to be by you night and day." He took a gasping breath. "To hold you forever in my arms; to imagine our children? To wish to share our griefs and our joys? Please come to me. It is in you I hope." She was weeping equally as hard. He stood breathing as though in battle, weeping as though at the aftermath of one.

"Fitzwilliam," she said between her own sobs. "I love you. I do love you." She stared at him for many moments. "My soul clings to you whenever you are near and I am empty and alone when you are apart from me." She wiped at her eyes but the gesture was futile. "But my heart loves two, there are two for whom I live: you and my daughter. And I cannot be parted from her. I will not lose her." Her hands tried again to staunch the tears and failed. "There is no solution, no reckoning but to leave me in my ivory tower." It was as though they were back in the rose garden. Those dead rose canes around her, covered in frost, keeping him at bay, the path a barrier between them. And she sobbed into her hands, clutching at her face and her hair as she wept, locks came undone as she cried and he stood and wept along with her. It seemed to him that her loveliness still shone even amid her grief and it pierced his soul, would kill him.

He wanted to raise his arms to the heavens and cry out and scream. He did not. It was his turn to lower his arms to his sides, let them hang there.

"I love you Elizabeth," he said, tears still in his eyes and he left the room. "Make sure to always get some sun."

She never finished the portrait of Stanford and had to make excuses to Georgiana that she had not sketched her nephew sufficiently.

* * *

He would have hope. He had spent enough time wandering, enough time drinking. He had to have hope enough for both of them though there was nothing to be done. Darcy could not be appealed to. He was like his nephew John, intent on winning that to ask for him to let Elizabeth and Amelia go would be showing his hand. Darcy always kept his cards close to his chest. Fitzwilliam would just have to have hope.


	44. Chapter 44

Rosings, April 1819

The first week in March he received a summons from Mrs. Jenkinson to come quickly. Anne was dying. It was a half day's journey and he arrived the next day. Anne had such color in her cheeks it was difficult to believe she was ill; the bright spots on her cheeks and in her eyes belied how sick she was but when she coughed discreetly in her handkerchief it was stained with blood.

There was no formal direction to their days, no set time to sit by her lounge in the parlor and then be off pursuing sport or some other activity. He sat with her through the day, talking of big things and small. How he missed the army, still wanted employment, found enjoyment in small things. Mrs. Jenkinson sat with them. Lady Catherine came in some formal pattern, kept to her own regular routine, but it was a pair that sat in a small way and attended Anne de Bourgh as she wasted away.

He knew what death and dying looked like, could see it was coming and prepared himself. He recalled battles and their aftermath when men on the brink of death who had not passed on but lingered lay in wait. He saw that in Anne. She wanted to know some of his difficulties, like Elizabeth had wanted to speak of war and battles and he did then, spoke of fighting but spoke of brave men, spoke of victories, talked of Wellington and what his leadership and skills had meant for the country. He took no credit himself. Anne knew he would not claim any even if asked, his experiences, his nature such that he would not.

It was a sunny afternoon when she slipped away. Mrs. Jenkinson had been reading her some poetry, Keats, despite its being forbidden by Lady Catherine and she simply stopped breathing. It had not been Lady Catherine's hour for a visit so she was called and then the officiousness set it. The funeral to be planned. Relations to be contacted.

The funeral was a large affair, like Richard's, with all the trappings; a velvet-covered coffin with silver studs, four horses, not two and services at midnight. Darcy came as did the male cousins: the Selbornes all resided in the south-west of England and were all there. There were fewer Fitzwilliames since they were from the north, Derbyshire, Staffordshire and Warwickshire and had not all traveled for the funeral. Anne was not as known to them as Richard had been. Of course, Mr. Eustace de Bourgh and Mr. Philip de Bourgh attended.

Eustace de Bourgh was now the inheritor of Rosings and they all wondered how Lady Catherine would handle the transition but with a small infant at home he did not seem to be in a hurry to take possession. There were to be massive redecorating plans to be implemented before he and Georgiana moved to Rosings, especially the nursery as it had been thirty-four years since it was last used. There were hints too of a second baby already.

Lady Catherine, however, was given the use of the dowager house and Georgiana and Eustace de Bourgh would have to tolerate her presence in the neighborhood. Her influence as the great lady of Rosings, however, would be severely diminished.

To everyone's surprise, especially her mother's, Anne de Bourgh left a last will and testament. She particularly remembered three people: Mrs. Jenkinson, Darcy and Fitzwilliam. There were commendations to all of them for seeing to her care and wellbeing over the years, to brightening her spirits and she thanked each of them in turn. There was no money left to Darcy but to Mrs. Jenkinson she left an annuity of three hundred pounds a year for her remaining lifetime. To Fitzwilliam she left a one-time legacy of 20,000 pounds.

Fitzwilliam supposed Anne had made the will when he was in the army living on a Colonel's poor pay and not after Dunchurch had given him an allowance that alleviated his need. He could not object to the money, however much Lady Catherine might, or even though his cousin de Bourgh might at losing such a sum from the estate. It gave him further independence he could not deny being happy about, it should help fund his move to Nassau.


	45. Chapter 45

Kympton, May 1819

"I am so pleased you invited me to come stay for a few days, despite the close distance, it is difficult to come for an afternoon to see you Kitty," said Elizabeth as they sat in the spacious vicarage parlor. It fronted the lane and was the best room in the vicarage. It was a quiet morning. They played with the children, discussed Jane's new baby, another boy. Elizabeth felt as if it was her first moment of comfort and happiness since Amelia's birth.

"Lizzy, do you remember Mrs. Hunt?" asked Catherine.

She looked up from rocking her daughter's cradle. "The previous vicar's wife? I met her once or twice after we first were married and I tried to visit every one in the neighborhood. It was a daunting task," she laughed. "To meet every one of Darcy's tenants or neighbors."

"He is a truly influential man," said Catherine. "If not for him, I would not have met Mr. Watson," and she cradled her child to her while she watched her son playing noisily in a corner.

"I do not believe I have seen Mrs. Hunt in five years, she had two sweet little boys if I recall but I imagine they are much grown and probably have gone to school if she can afford that as a widow. Did Mr. Hunt provide well for her?" asked Elizabeth.

Catherine looked away from her son and seemed to hesitate before she answered, "yes, she has sent her two boys off to school—a very good one—but she had a baby after Mr. Hunt died, did you know? A few months after his passing."

"Yes, I do recall something about that child. I remember we were all so caught up in news about Waterloo and Lydia's plight with baby George," she looked around the room lost in thinking of that busy summer, "and then we were busy with Georgiana's come-out with Darcy having to find a new vicar for the living after Mr. Hunt passed on. I never visited her after Mr. Hunt died which was very bad of me." Elizabeth smiled.

Catherine laughed, "yes and then I came here and married Mr. Watson, it was a busy year." She shifted the baby in her arms. "Mrs. Hunt had her baby a little after Jane had Henry that spring, right around Easter. He is a pretty thing. Mrs. Hunt still lives in the area; she has a small house at the edge of town." She rocked the sleeping baby in her arms, "and lives quietly with one or two servants, but she comes to town once a week on market day now, which is today. You should spy out the window and look at the pair of them," urged Kitty.

"I recall Mrs. Hunt was beautiful with pretty blond curls," said Elizabeth as she glanced over at her daughter who slept in the cradle despite the noise of her boy cousin. "Is her little son just as angelic?—I can imagine a sweet little face with golden curls," she painted a picture in her mind of the still young woman and her small son walking to market together, hand-in-hand, him frisking along beside her, no hat to keep his curls in place as his actions made them dance around his head like a golden halo.

They kept an eye out for the pair, and after long minutes and dealing with the sudden waking of Catherine's daughter, Kitty spied the sought-after pair on the road. She told her sister to go sit in the window seat and look on the pair as they walked past, but Elizabeth stood at the edge of the window so as to not be entirely conspicuous as she looked out.

Mrs. Hunt was a little older than she recalled, but it had to have been five years since they met and she had not seen the lady since her first year of marriage. She had on a pretty dress, not the current year's style, but still one that suited her and her fair coloring and blond curls. After examining the mother she turned to the child and froze, feeling as if a hand had taken a hold of her heart and then ripped it from her chest. The child was dark where the mother was fair and no curls danced around his head, his hair was dark and short and straight. He was singing a little song as he did frisk along beside his mother, holding her hand.

Elizabeth lost control of her legs and dropped to her heels, her hands over her ears staring at the floor, her chin tucked against her knees attempting to hold in a sob that was welling within her and would break any moment.

"Lizzy, I had no other way of telling you than by showing you," said Catherine standing beside her; her baby back in its own cradle. She reached an arm out and then enfolded her sister in her arms. "I have had my suspicions about the child's parentage but I see I was right to suspect," she said as she leaned over and rocked her now sobbing sister in her arms. Elizabeth cried in Catherine's arms for a few minutes more then took a few deep breaths. Catherine did not let go of her but continued to hold her.

"There is a picture of that child in the portrait gallery at Pemberley on Lady Anne's knee," and she started crying again and could only give over every sadness at the obvious failure of her marriage with such a proof. That she herself had strayed was proof that theirs was a union that should never have occurred. She sat up and untangled herself to look at her sister. "Thank you, Kitty. I know it has to have been a difficult thing for you to have done."

She sat again and looked over at her nephew who was still happily playing and had not noticed his mother and aunt's concerns. "And does Mr. Watson know about the child?"

"Yes, he and I discussed it. Mrs. Hunt chose to remain in the neighborhood after her husband passed away, which was only right, I suppose, with her little ones growing up here, but with such an indiscretion and everyone hereabouts knowing who Mr. Darcy is, it is a subject much whispered in parlor corners, I am afraid." She pursed her lips. "Mr. Watson would like it to be not so, Lizzy. It does not do well for our little town and our society to have people talk so about someone, a widow, and another, our master, if I may," said Kitty. "People know him by sight, see him here abouts often enough." Elizabeth looked at Catherine and there was part of her that thought 'I would never have thought to hear such words from my little sister,' as she thought of those tumultuous years when their mother tried everything to marry them off and Lydia leading Kitty astray in pursuit of officers.

"I will discuss it with Mr. Darcy," said Elizabeth, "he should have taken the child away or moved Mrs. Hunt and the boy away. I cannot believe Darcy is not alive to the gossip I am sure this has caused!" and she was torn between tears and anger then. She paused, "is he a good little boy?" she ventured.

"He is a sweet little thing and knows nothing of his parent's indiscretions," answered Catherine.

"What is he called?" asked Elizabeth.

"He was christened Ralph William Hunt, but she calls him her little William," Catherine had hesitated giving an answer, but spoke quickly when she did answer.

Elizabeth cried out at that and her nephew looked up in alarm causing Catherine to go over to console him. Elizabeth had to leave the room; sure that Kitty would ring for a nursery maid if Amelia woke while she was gone.

Elizabeth was able to compose herself after fifteen minutes in her room; her mind had been full of whirling thoughts of that small face. He favored his father incredibly; he was almost a perfect copy of that portrait of Fitzwilliam Darcy on Lady Anne's knee in that portrait at Pemberley.

She returned to the Parsonage parlor to find that her daughter was still asleep. Her daughter, their daughter, favored him as well. She had so often gazed at her nephews, and niece, and wondered which line they favored, but with Amelia it was quite obvious to all.

Septimus and Sophronia had been taken to the nursery and only Catherine remained her eye on Amelia and her hands on some needlework, but waiting for her sister.

"What age has he, Kitty?" Elizabeth asked as she sat next to Catherine.

"He was three in the spring," answered her sister looking up from her work.

Elizabeth stared at her sister, attempting to stave off that feeling that a force was attempting to rip her insides up out through her throat; she thought for a moment she would retch and covered her mouth. She and Darcy had been married five years, to have a child of such an age meant he had been, and she paused, even in her own thoughts, he had been _indiscreet_ , just after their first year of marriage. Aching, a pressure came to the sides of her chest as though to squeeze all the air out but she was determined to contain herself. She put her hands up over her ears and stared at her lap for a second.

"Lizzy?" asked Catherine. Elizabeth took in two successive breaths and put her hands back down on her lap.

"Mrs. Hunt is a widow. How long has she been widowed?" She asked as she attempted normal breaths.

"About three and a half years," said Catherine with a look on her face as she knew the answer would cause her sister deep pain. "Mr. Hunt died in November. He was ill, according to Mr. Watson since the beginning of the summer."

It did cause pain. A spasm of sorts passed over her upper lip as Elizabeth set her teeth together, her shoulders folded inward and her eyes narrowed as she fought off her grief. She sat slumped looking at some point on the floor for many minutes.

"I could never have imagined this, Kitty." And she sat still again as she thought about what Darcy had done. There was harm too to more than just her and her family. He had harmed Mr. Hunt. He was gone now, buried in the Kympton church yard; he had two living sons and a third reckoned his own, but who was not, in fact, his own flesh and blood. Mrs. Hunt had to live with being the subject of parlor corner gossip—how had it taken so long for the whispers to have reached Elizabeth's ears? She did not know or wish to speculate.

Her own indiscretion came to her as she was condemning Darcy for his. Hers had been a single night though that made it no less of a fall from grace; but Catherine's hints were that Darcy's indiscretions continued.

Though her inclination might have been to return home to Pemberley immediately, she completed her stay with her sister, Catherine, as planned. Theirs, the Parsonage, was a peaceful house, and she found it imbued her with some inner strength to face speaking to her husband on her return.


	46. Chapter 46

It was to be a discreet conversation, not one to discuss over the supper plates with footmen attending, and she would need to carry herself with dignity as if not affected by such news until she had an opportunity to speak to her husband. That was what she most feared: remaining quiet until the appointed time and place.

She suffered through a tea by herself after returning home and then braved the supper table and Darcy's indifferent questions of her two day's stay in Kympton before they parted. Elizabeth had decided against confronting him through the dressing room door which left tackling him in his study where he often retired in the evenings. After they separated and she had given him sufficient time for his post-prandial activities—whatever he did when it was just him alone of an evening—she found him in the study.

Darcy looked at her with a smile but a furrowed brow. She had not requested his company as she did when she specifically wished for it. He stood and then nodded her over towards a matching chair. She remained where she was just inside the door.

"I saw Mrs. Hunt and Ralph yesterday," she said. It took a lot to say those words, her stomach clenched up and she was happy she had eaten very little earlier. She felt as though her stays were sizes too small and being tightened unmercifully as she stood looking at him waiting for a reaction from him.

No man expects his wife to ask about his mistress and his bastard son and he stood, immobile, his eyes darted towards the fireplace and then back at her. They landed on the carpet a foot before her feet.

She took a step further into the room, into his line of vision and he looked up at her with shock and embarrassment on his face. They stood in silence for five minutes, unsure how to continue, but Elizabeth refused to turn and go and Darcy could not speak.

"Ralph Hunt looks almost exactly like that young boy on Lady Anne Darcy's knee in that portrait in the Long Gallery," said Elizabeth.

"It was stupid, I made a mistake," said her husband at last, looking away from her as he turned to go back to his chair, and to hide his face from her, "it was a moment of weakness," and his voice was fainter then.

She stalked more into the room but did not take up a seat, there was a tear or two in her eyes then, but she did not let them affect her, "yes but there is a child and gossip. You must do something."

His head was still turned from her. "I am supporting her and the boy and paying for the two older boys at school," he explained.

"But she cannot continue to live there, Darcy. Mr. Watson says it is disrupting Kympton society, people gossiping in corners, people _know_ …or suspect." She took in a deep breath and blew it out. "You must go talk to Mr. Watson about this," she said.

He looked at her then with a sad smile, but pleaded, "He is my brother, how can I speak about this?"

"That is the benefit of family, Darcy. You share your triumphs and your failures," she answered. He did not say anything and turned away, one hand up on his head to brush his hair as if to also brush his thoughts, to straighten them out, make sense of them.

"He is also a clergyman, should there not be a better man to talk to?" she prompted.

But Darcy felt too much like Mr. Watson's master and could not speak to him. He had endowed him with the living. "I cannot," was all he said.

The tightness all around her body was lessening and she felt she could come sit finally, her anger lessen though she thought she could not be expected to be reasonable.

"Darcy, how can we continue together after this?" she asked as she sat down next to him.

"We have Amelia," he answered looking not at her but past her, not able to catch her eye.

"She is young enough not to know our follies," said Elizabeth.

His eyes found her then, focused and hurt and angry.

"Are you suggesting we live apart?" he snapped.

"I am not sure how I feel or am supposed to feel," she answered keeping her eyes on him while he would spare them. "You have an heir and you have a son. How can I reconcile these two?" Her voice cracked.

"Ralph is not my heir though he is my son. Amelia is my heir," he said. It hurt her that he mentioned the boy first and not his daughter.

"Yes," and then it was she who looked away, into the fire, "you need a son for Pemberley."

It was quiet for a full minute before he answered her.

"Yes."

She looked over at him as he stared at the dark and glowing coals, giving off warmth. "If we had no more children would Stanford inherit Pemberley?" She asked her hands clutching at the chair arms to steady her.

"Yes," he answered. "Amelia inherits money, but no property. Georgiana's son would be heir to a vast fortune, two estates, both Pemberley and Rosings."

"A point to make Lady Catherine glad; she always wanted the two estates united," she said as they both stared at the coals.

It was quiet again.

"We are not assured of ever having a son and Amelia seemed hard to come by despite our best efforts," her voice was softer then, part of the shame she felt about her inability to produce that next master of Pemberley made her falter.

He was cooling to her; it was not a conversation any husband and wife wish to have, none of the topics were easy.

"Do you love Mrs. Hunt?" she asked.

"She is a good, quiet companion," he answered, "and is a good mother to Ralph." Elizabeth considered then that Darcy must visit Marguerite Hunt, supposed she must be a mistress even now. That was the closest he would come to admitting such a thing to her.

"Do you love my cousin?" it was mortifying question and one she did not expect and was not prepared for. Elizabeth looked over to find Darcy looking directly at her. The vastness of the dark, still night around them seemed to make it a cave with just a small little light from the fireplace on the two of them. She had to answer truthfully.

"Yes, Fitzwilliam and I love each other. We talked once, after his return from the Peninsula, that should you have not captured my hand he would have offered for me. Such is war that it disrupts lives in many ways," she did not mention her indiscretion.

"Is she mine?" He had not looked away from her, but his eyes hid a small fear, a little sadness that made her utterly forlorn. He had come upon them in the library, after visiting Mrs. Hunt, to find Fitzwilliam kissing Elizabeth his hand on her swollen belly as though it was his own creation, Fitzwilliam's own.

"Darcy! Yes, of course she is," and she reached across though she could not touch him, "your child so favors you," she had thought some days it had been unfair, but was thankful now; she stood up and walked over to him to touch his arm, "both your children do if I may say so."

"Amelia has often reminded me of Georgiana," he remarked, "but I have wondered." She removed her arm but stood next to him.

"Are we to live apart then or can we try to reconcile?" he said. It was half a question, half a statement.

"I, I made a vow, Fitzwilliam, but what do you wish?" she was not sure what she wanted; whether she wished to keep that vow to remain with him.

"May we not see if there is another child, a son to be had? If by Michaelmas we are not successful, we can discuss further arrangements." He sounded cool and business-like. He had not been in her bed in almost two years. She thought it an almost futile gesture.

"What of Amelia? I will not be separated from my child. I would never do anything to keep you from her or to poison her against you but I cannot be parted from her," she said.

"If it were a son I could not bear to have him leave me, but a daughter needs her mother's guiding hand. I am sure we could work on arrangements."

She looked down at her husband who stared at the coals. She put a hand on his wrist. "All right."

* * *

Darcy had seen them kiss and something had just died within him. It was like realizing that he had the losing hand in a card game; that he had bet it all and that he had well and truly lost. That life had not worked out as imagined.

Life had given them Waterloo; he had the responsibilities of Georgiana, she had not had her head turned by any of the young men in Derbyshire so they had packed up and moved to London and that seemed to have been taken such a toll on Elizabeth.

There was his cousin's presence in their lives, guardian to Georgiana; he allowed Darcy to return to Pemberley to handle estate matters, to visit Marguerite. Yet Darcy had known back that first Easter, after that first disastrous proposal that his cousin admired Elizabeth but he did not know that it was an admiration that would simply never waver, his cousin loved Elizabeth as more than Darcy loved Elizabeth and it was not a race Darcy was able to keep up with it was not a game Darcy was able to win.

She was beautiful and he had appreciated her beauty, those dark eyes that had enchanted him and he had found pleasure in her figure, in her arms, her liveliness and her wit had so attracted him though it was so in contrast to his own and he thought now, in hindsight, that perhaps that might have been a mistake. Her body had excited him once. Her playfulness and liveliness he had enjoyed at first, her teasing qualities and yet he had also found that same passion when incensed, when she was angry, could be difficult to hear, difficult to bear when it was directed against him. When they fought she was not one to back down.

Marguerite was beautiful; she was quiet. They could often be fifteen minutes or a whole half hour together and not speak and yet still feel comfortable together. Darcy would be sorry to move her away. He and Elizabeth had nothing to talk about, found no comfort in each other, but he would keep busy with Pemberley. He was always involved in running it and making it a magnificent estate. But he faltered in his thinking. He had always thought that he would be improving it for his son.

And it seemed quite likely that there would be no son, no heir. Pemberley would go to his nephew, Stanford. Amelia, his daughter, would be a rich lady someday when she came of age to marry. And his son, Ralph, he would need to ensure would have something. He would need to look at purchasing an estate for Ralph. To ensure that he had invested in every way possible that despite the circumstances of his birth and there really was no taint, he was not bastard-born, and he was his son, that he would have every advantage possible Darcy could give him.

* * *

A/N: re-read Chapter 21.


	47. Chapter 47

A/N: Posting conclusion of story today as family circumstances mean I am offline for a few days and would otherwise miss posting.

Brooke Hall, June 1819

Fitzwilliam was riding with Jamie. James had graduated from a pony to one of the mares in the stable. Fitzwilliam had thought he would be as indifferent or even a reluctant rider as he had been about other sports but Jamie sat well and had a confidence about him that Fitzwilliam had seen at other times with this old soul. They rode in silence for a long time. So often the others peppered Uncle Ned with questions but Jamie seemed content to share time and space with him in silence. He was a good companion, like Walsh.

"What have you done with your boot knife?" asked Fitzwilliam.

"I gave it to Nanny to keep safe," answered Jamie. "Johnny or Neddy might take it otherwise. I have no use for it right now, in the nursery. Nanny will keep it safe for me."

"That is a good plan," said his uncle.

They rode again in silence for a while.

"Mamma is to have another baby," he said suddenly.

"Yes, I know," answered the uncle.

"She will not say if it is to be a boy or a girl!" He sounded indignant.

"Perhaps she does not herself know," answered Fitzwilliam.

"But surely she must," insisted the boy, "Mamma knows everything!"

"I think this is something she cannot share," said his uncle.

"But I need to know if I am to be a brother to another brother or another sister," insisted the lad.

"Why is that important?"

"John has moved from the nursery. Papa has let him have his own room and John and Neddy have a tutor now. So it is just me and Dickie and Sophia in the nursery. I am their protector, see." He looked at this uncle as though this was all logical, insisting on its importance.

"Not that Johnny ever did that, protected them. But I need to always watch over them and keep them safe. And girls, especially, need extra care. So I need to know if Mamma's baby is to be a girl or a boy," he argued.

How did he explain to his nephew that even the mother he so loved and adored could not know the sex of her own child? Would it make him think less of his mother whom he held in such esteem?

"I think, Sir James," he looked over at the young gentleman with reins held loosely and yet confidently in his hands, "that it does not matter if you have a brother or a sister for you will do your very best to love and protect them no matter what the cost."

They rode in silence again for a long time and it was not until they were almost back at the stables that Jamie replied. "You are correct, Uncle Ned. It matters not. I shall always do my best."

* * *

Clara had told him of her news, of the expectation of another child. For once he had not responded with his usual joy.

"Edward, what is bothering you, what is on your mind?" She asked.

He looked at her over his tea cup, a usual habit when they conversed. "Far too much to share," he replied and his eyes were distant.

"I think you should share a little. I have had hints from Susanna that you have troubles," she said. "Do not think that I cannot bear to hear what you might have to say about any troubles; I am your sister, you are my brother, and we are family. We share our joys and shore each other up through our burdens Ned."

"You have had your own grief to bear," he replied.

"Is it grief you deal with?" She asked.

"Yes, it certainly feels like grief. I have lost my heart."

And he spoke of his despair. How much he loved Elizabeth, she who was his hope and his joy, and that his actions were always too late. Like his mother so many years before, or his brother even years before that she had no advice, but she did have sympathy.

"I have declared myself but I have not won her. I cannot win another woman's heart so I have stopped trying, there is no love for me which is why I am to say goodbye," and there was no emotion in his voice. He was learning to let go.

"I am truly sorry Ned. I am," his sister was, however, broken up his news, and her voice was raw.

"I am going to go to Nassau, the West Indies. I have a friend," he began.

And he explained his plans to move there. He was to leave Walsh behind, for once, but he had settled a large annuity on his faithful companion who had many reasons for staying in England while Fitzwilliam had many reasons for going. He needed activity, employment and this would give him that and it would also get him away from Elizabeth since there was nothing to be done, except to hope.


	48. Chapter 48

Nassau, September 1819

Fitzwilliam gloried in the heat. He had never known such hot days, even in Spain, and he did remove his cravat and hike about with his shirt open and his throat exposed. He like the mix of people, more character to be had than on a stage in a London playhouse. There was rum to sip—an interesting alcoholic creation—and interesting companions to meet and his month so far in the Bahamas had been pleasant.

He still felt like a stranger in a strange land, however, who would never fit in. Mr. Barry had welcomed him and shown him around happily but like his trials that one summer at being a yeoman farmer in England—to be a sheep farmer or raising strawberries or wheat—raising cotton in the Bahamas was really no different. The weather he could not quibble about the weather, but one island had a blight hit its cotton and wipe out everyone's crop. The entire island's. No one had been able to grow cotton since.

Fitzwilliam had never considered slavery before but he had to consider it if he was to live in the Bahamas. While England had abolished slavery, the islands had not yet followed suit. Many Loyalists from the Americas had moved there with slaves during or after the wars in the late 18th century. Fitzwilliam had met a handful of dark-skinned West Indian men who fought at Waterloo. They had fought bravely, were fellow men-at-arms. He decided he could not countenance slavery which would make living there and working a farm more difficult.

He did enjoy his time there, so different from the walled-in and formal world of London society to a place with no paved streets and still barely past the days of piracy. His days became weeks as he found enough contentment to occupy himself. There was no Walsh to share it, which he was sorry for. But Mrs. Keep was expecting a baby and Fitzwilliam could not expect his man to follow him to a somewhere, a plan without end, and to miss his child's birth. The two had not married, he did not know if Mr. Keep was still living, or actually if there was a Mr. Keep at all, or if they simply did not care to. Fitzwilliam was not bothered by it at all, he was simply happy for Walsh and the prospect of his being a father.


	49. Chapter 49

London, October, 1819

There had been news, local gossip that Mrs. Hunt had moved away. The story she gave out was that she was to move in with a cousin and share expenses and they were to move closer to her two older sons, to be near Eton where the two boys were at school and there was to be somebody else to help her with Ralph.

In one respect, Elizabeth did not worry then that he was off visiting Mrs. Hunt but part of her thought he too would be alone, left alone at Pemberley when she and Amelia left. It was difficult to find love again when they had lost it and as September approached there was no sign of a second baby. They found that there was nothing to talk about between them.

She spent most of her time with Amelia. She could not paint any more. She had the company of the ladies of the parish; she had valued Mrs. Worth and Mrs. Alport though she supposed she would lose their friendship once she left. Mrs. Stanhope still remained somewhat secluded but Elizabeth felt a certain sympathy for her now and before leaving she did at least pay her a call and she was received and Elizabeth did express a great sincerity to her for acquaintance. The lady was surprised; though once Elizabeth left she imagined Mrs. Stanhope would be shocked to find out why Elizabeth was leaving Pemberley for good, was leaving Derbyshire.

Elizabeth had slowly cut down on her social obligations. After Amelia's birth she had not called on anyone for almost a year. She had slowly, the spring when Amelia was one, begun to call on people, pretended to be mistress of Pemberley again however much she felt she was not if she no longer had the love of the master of Pemberley. Then May had come and she had learned about Ralph Hunt. There was not much leaving-taking to do, not that she could really say goodbye or tell neighbors she was going; tell them _why_.

As September gave way to October and it was obvious there was to be no child, no potential heir—a son—she mourned. It had been such a life she had imaged for herself, the new home she was to go to, Darcy and Pemberley were to have represented every new happiness for her in leaving her family home. But it had not worked out; happiness is not guaranteed. One can hope, but hoping does not mean that the item hoped for is a certainty.

It was odd that she should have been so concerned, so mortified with Lydia's behavior, her running off with Wickham all those years ago, the impropriety of it all and yet, here she was doing something that was certainly to be talked of as improper. She knew of no other acquaintance who had considered a legal separation beyond what had been reported about Lord Byron separating from his wife, and leaving his child. There would be no divorce. That meant an appeal to Parliament and before that, appeals to different courts and only half a chance that Parliament might grant that divorce in the end and that would be a terrific scandal. This way it might be quieter, easier, the separation.

Fitzwilliam was gone, according to Lady Susanna, moved to Nassau to be that yeoman farmer. She was still to be alone. She mourned everything in her life but the smiles from her daughter.

* * *

She was only at Darcy house for couple of days. She spoke to Lady Susanna and requested help in finding a more permanent place to live while all the details of their separation were worked out. And Lady Susanna invited her to come stay with them. Elizabeth protested. Mrs. Darcy coming to them would bring scandal to their doorstep, and an infant.

But her friend welcomed them cheerfully. It would be a new experience for the three women. Perhaps Mrs. Heene had hoped to have her own child and could then experience having one around but Elizabeth and Amelia came to live at Barker house while she looked for her own residence.

Lady Susanna had an agent because, of course, a woman could not sign a lease on her own. It was in the Earl of Dunchurch's name that a small house in a village with the interesting name of Bethnall Green was leased. And Elizabeth found just enough staff to care for her and her infant daughter. She did not mind the rumor that one of the other houses in the village was home to a madman; she supposed she was simply adding to local gossip. It was far enough from the city proper that she hoped that she was in some ways immune to whatever gossip might be bandied about her and Mr. Darcy, about their separating. And there _was_ a pretty little green that she could walk around every day and indulge in air and exercise which she had always found so efficacious all of her life.

* * *

She contacted few, and spent all her time with her daughter. Mrs. Parker had offered to come with her but she hated to bring Mrs. Parker down in the world by accompanying her, but her nurse chose to come and stayed by her side.

Elizabeth mourned. She also mourned relationships. Jane could not understand; she who was so happy with her brood of boys. Jane could not understand. She did not truly correspond with Mary so heard nothing and expected nothing. Catherine was the wife of a clergyman and could only be expected to have a grim view of things even if they did both understood the circumstances. She could not think what to tell Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Letters to and from Lydia were few and far between.

With her daughter and Mrs. Parker and her small staff she settled in Bethnall Green, away from the busyness and the fashionable part of the city.

* * *

It was a legal separation though it just a private contract that was to be drafted between her, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. There was no basis under English law either in the ecclesiastical courts or the common law courts for a separation. It was drafted like a bill of sale was drafted, what a tradesman might draft and it was acutely painful for Elizabeth to look upon, and to realize.

He had been generous, Mr. Darcy, when he could have been stingy. He could have objected to the separation in the first place. There were monies to be settled on her, she got her jewelry. There was no house or property though. He did state that their daughter Amelia might reside with the wife though he was to be allowed visits which were in no way specified and though they both knew that should he decide to take Amelia away from her she would have no recourse whatsoever since she had no rights. A father had every right, a mother none.

The one glaring point that had her staring at it for many days was a simple paragraph that disclaimed any children that might be born to her after the date that the contract was signed as if he assumed that she would be capable of bearing children. Amelia had been so difficult to come by she had only been born after four years of marriage and Darcy had obviously had a child easily with Mrs. Hunt so the issue had been with her, but that paragraph stated that any children born after the document was signed were not to be considered to be of his flesh. As if Amelia had been an aberration.

That he assumed that she and Fitzwilliam loved each other and would be together. He did not seem to know Fitzwilliam had moved away, was gone, and no longer lived in England.

She did feel sorry for Darcy; she understood, in talking to various people, that he could never claim Ralph as his son. Should he have decided to not just agree to the separation but to actually divorce her and pursue it through the courts and then petition Parliament for the divorce, and then seek to marry Mrs. Hunt he could never claim Ralph as his son. A child born so soon after the death of a man should always and forever be assumed to be the son of that man. Though they might all swear that Ralph was Darcy's son and anybody had only to look at Ralph Hunt and to look at Darcy to know that he was the courts would not agree. So Ralph would be forever condemned to be his natural son, to be forever a bastard son should Darcy claim him. Perhaps he had some sympathy for her. It still hurt though.

* * *

Sometimes she woke in the dark of the night and lay awake thinking of her circumstances, of living alone in an unusually large house for three—for she could not but consider Mrs. Parker when she counted her little family. She and her housekeeper/companion wove amusement for Amelia and spent a lot of time with the child which kept them both occupied. But it was at night that the loneliness caught up with her. Though she was terribly lonely, so used to having family around, she had at least escaped that sense of being kept in an ivory tower.

Elizabeth thought a lot about what she had wanted, perceived she was obtaining with her marriage and move to Pemberley. She had once argued that she and Darcy were born to the same sphere and had perceived no difference in their station; had no expectation of a difference in their lives. But there was. She was not sure if she could have known that; that her experiences of the world would have been vast enough to have let her know that they had different experiences of the world.

Had not Mr. Darcy once said so, during his first proposal, that his relations' expectations were so different? Had she not argued, asked of him what would happen when he changed his mind? He was human; she was human and they had both made mistakes and would both suffer for them.

She thought of how hard she had pushed Georgiana and her own sister Catherine at the local Derbyshire gentleman. Elizabeth thought she knew, somehow, that she was afraid of going to London, living through the seasons there. She thought back to that first spring with Fitzwilliam of their long discussions of family and of realities. She was a country girl and knew only that, growing up in Meryton, the rhythms of village life, with twenty-four families, everyone knowing everyone's business, the slower pace. Not the false life and endless parade of people that had been those mainstays in London. Perhaps it would have been different if Georgiana had not needed her seasons, to be cared for, to be married off. Darcy loved his estate, after all, but he had also wanted a sister and a chaperone for Georgiana. If he was a country gentleman, how had they happened to spend so much time in London? Yet too, his mistress had not been found in town, in London, but back at home. Their life together seemed so full of contradictions.

But that smaller, quieter pace of life, that country life was what she wanted and wished for her daughter. Village life, friends and neighbors. Neighbors like Mrs. Browne and Miss Browne. Mr. Darcy had been perfectly willing to give Miss Brown a small annuity for which Elizabeth was forever thankful as Mrs. Browne had passed away the following spring and now Miss Browne was set.

Given her circumstances, Elizabeth was not sure if any small country village would welcome her presence. She thought it unfair that Mrs. Hunt was considered more respectable in a country village house with her bastard son—though no one was likely to know of the circumstances of his birth—than Elizabeth whose sin was to separate from her husband. She considered that this village on the outskirts of London was her best place to roost where she could come to know her neighbors yet not be so in town as to be part of the whirl of society.

Fitzwilliam had a strong sense of family, loved them more than anything and she wondered that he would leave them. She had known that about him, had sensed that at the start. His devotion to his cousin Anne. How he spoke of his brother, his lost brother, his sisters and his nephews. She hoped he was happy away from their loving embrace.


	50. Chapter 50

Bethnall Green, Jan 1820

A few days after the New Year the maid announced a visitor, a gentleman, "has the same last name as you, ma'am," she said. Elizabeth had taken to calling herself Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, not correcting people if they assumed 'Fitzwilliam Darcy' was her entire surname and not her married name, her husband's Christian and surname together.

And Edward Fitzwilliam walked into her parlor.

She had thought it might be Mr. Darcy. He was to be granted access to his daughter and she would never bar him from her house. When she had left Pemberley they had not really said goodbye. They had dined together in the evening but could not speak in front of the footmen. He had asked her to find him in the study later which she did.

Their conversation had been as difficult as the one in which she had first mentioned Mrs. Hunt and Ralph. Neither spoke for minutes at a time and neither looked each other fully in the face. He explained he would begin to draft a legal separation that he would provide for her, give her money. There had been a long pause then.

"You will always be my wife. I expect you to conduct yourself with decorum," and he had looked her fully in the face then.

"I will," she had promised. She supposed he thought her to run to his cousin, but she wondered if they no longer corresponded and he did not know Fitzwilliam was gone from the country.

He mentioned their daughter and an arrangement for her to come to Pemberley every summer to visit. Elizabeth longed to ask if she could come as well, stay at one of the inns at Lambton or with Kitty and Mr. Watson if they would have her but held her tongue. She did not wish to reveal her fears that he would take the child. And then he dismissed her, said that was all. There was no handshake, no kiss on the cheek, no goodbye and she left the next day.

* * *

She clasped a hand to her chest at seeing him.

"Fitzwilliam," and she sank to her seat all the while staring at him. He was dark of skin, his hair longer than he normally wore it. His face, perhaps, a little more lined than when she had last seen him almost a year ago.

"Lizzy," and he bowed and then stood looking at her.

"Edward," she said but still sitting immobile.

He took a step forward, "may I?" She nodded and he placed himself near her.

"Edward…" she began her insides felt a flutter.

"Susanna told me you were here. I returned from the West Indies three days ago. Cotton farming is not to be in my future," and he smiled. She did not feel so witty or light-hearted to return the smile.

"I have been settling back into my dull bachelor quarters and catching up on correspondence. And doing some visiting." He was anxious; she could read that in his countenance.

"It is good to see you again," she offered. Elizabeth was in turmoil. Fitzwilliam had gone away; she had thought he was gone for good. She had settled into her lonely life, lifted up only by her daughter and her painting which she had found again once leaving Pemberley. She had not wanted to consider her happiness entangled with another person beyond that of her daughter. "How is Lady Susanna?" she asked.

"She is well," he replied. Then there was silence between them and around them.

"Lizzy," he looked at her, "How are you faring?"

"I am well," it was a well-used response.

"Truly?" he pressed. She looked at him with those beautiful dark eye', the joie de vivre had been diminished over the years, with her marriage and now this separation. "Tell me how you are doing, truly?" he pressed.

"No," she answered softly. "No," she repeated. "I had wanted happiness in marriage and I found sorrow. Darcy loved me, but he did not love me enough. We did not seem to wish for complimentary things in marriage. It was not a notion of mine that he would wish to take a mistress; he was in many other ways so loving. He is a good man and yet probably an ordinary man and not to be faulted for acting like other men do." Sadness rolled off of her—there were no tears, not yet.

"So I sit here in a sort of exile though it is better than having stayed. He had loved me once but no longer, do you know how hard that has hit me, Edward?" her eyes still shone but he felt despair over seeing the flame inside them diminished. "Our relationship has been reduced to a bill of sale. All set down in black and white." She cried then and he moved over and enveloped her in his arms and held her while she cried. She clung to his broad chest and wept over so many months of despair, wept tears of sorrow, tears of anger, tears of hope lost. He nestled his cheek against the top of her head and held her.

When her torrent of tears was over he kissed the top of her head and released her, pressed a handkerchief on her and they discussed the weather and how she liked her little village. His half hour was up and he left soon afterwards.

* * *

He came every day for tea. He shared tales of his adventures in Nassau, the sea voyage over and back. Of the constant sun, the different pace of life, the assortment and character of the people he met. He told her about his family, of his brother, Dunchurch's son, the new heir Francis—the new Lord Radbourne—who looked like a Fitzwilliam, all the Ladbrokes describing each in turn, but especially Jamie. He had a hundred stories about James Ladbroke.

In between Elizabeth ventured some of her experiences, how she no longer heard from either of her parents. Her mother, it seemed, could not forgive her for giving up being mistress of Pemberley. Her goal in life had been to marry off her daughters to wealthy gentlemen and Mrs. Bennet had loved to brag about rich Mrs. Darcy. It was with tears that she spoke of the loss of her father that she had somehow sinned in his eyes, erred in a way he could not express or handle or fathom.

She did still have the love of two of her sisters. Lydia was entirely supportive of her. If she had fallen out of love, thought Lydia, then they should separate. She and Mr. Smith were still in love, apparently, though never blessed with children. He had chosen to adopt baby George as his own. In that respect, Jane had been right and he was a good husband to Lydia and father to George.

Jane did not understand. Home, husband and children were ever her life and her happiness. Each son gave her more happiness, even if they did also tired her out. But she was still excessively devoted to Bingley and they took Mr. Darcy's view, whatever that was, in this.

Catherine was supportive of her, as was Mr. Watson, though given his profession they could not sanction such a thing as a separation. But Mr. Darcy had moved Mrs. Hunt and Ralph from Kympton, removed that source of neighborhood gossip and they were extremely sympathetic to Elizabeth knowing how Ralph's presence in Mrs. Hunt's nursery had soiled her marriage. She had not heard from Mary.

Mrs. Gardiner had written once and said she was sorry and offered her words that came to mean condolences, but then wrote no more. It was something, that letter from her aunt, those condolence. Mrs. Gardiner had loved Elizabeth but had valued Mr. Darcy so Elizabeth feared she could not forgive her but hoped that her aunt's love for her, in time, would prevail, that they would converse and perhaps might even speak in person some day.

Weeks went by.

Fitzwilliam stood up after tea one day to take his leave and was standing with her hand in his, "I do not wish to let go," he said.

She looked up at him.

He raised her hand to his lips then put his other around her waist and looked at her.

"I will proclaim before God and witnesses that I will never leave your side again."

She was silent.

"Forever, I am asking you for forever, Elizabeth. Do not send me away to my dank hovel any longer. Let us proclaim ourselves before God, before our family, that we want to be together forever," he looked down at her with loving eyes.

"We cannot marry," she argued.

"I want you by my side. I do not wish to leave again to keep up this pretense of afternoon tea. I do not care that we are not sanctioned by law. Let me write my family. Say you love me. Say you will pledge yourself to me in front of them. Be by my side forever. Bear my children," and his voice broke then, "bear my children," he kissed her, "love me forever."

"I am not convinced I can have any more children. I am cursed with barrenness," she was sad.

"You are not cursed with anything," he cried, "unless it is to bear my company forever."

"I had believed I would be forever condemned to live alone, Edward," she began, "when my marriage began to crumble last year and you were gone." She paused. "Did you know…did you hear about his son?" it was a subject that necessitated tears.

"I did not know," and he held her to him as she wept again on his chest, "I had no notion he had done such an injustice to you. He told me," it pained him to confess but he felt he must, "he told me years ago he had a mistress. I thought it was a temporary thing, while you were with child. Not that he had kept her for years."

"Some part has to fall on me," she cried, "that was the summer of Waterloo, did I drive him to it? I was so anxious about my sister Lydia's fate that I was unreasonable and pressed him to search for her. I believe that was where our marriage first began to fall apart." The tears abated, and she looked up at him, "I asked him to do more than what he was capable of doing."

"You are not to claim any responsibility for what he chose to do. A man's actions are his own and must reflect upon him." He held her tightly. "Which is why, I Edward Fitzwilliam would be the happiest man on earth if you agree to spend the rest of your God-given days with me in whatever form they come. To share our joys and sorrows together. To welcome any children that may come or to only find joy in Amelia. To share my house and my bed and to never leave my side until we are parted in death. And though we may not be sanctioned by Man's institutions I will swear in front of God and my family to love you all the rest of my life."

She lay her head on his chest and let him hold her; lay in his arms for a while.

"I have always loved you," she said at last. "I have never stopped." She looked up at him. "Kiss me," and he obeyed with the same fierceness and passion he had always shown for her.

"I will," she said, "be by your side forever."

He said he would put it all down in writing as well, but she answered. "You are a gentleman and I take you at your word." There was so much of her and Darcy's relationship that was put into words that she did not want theirs to be set down on paper.


	51. Chapter 51

Dunchurch Coombe, Feb 1820

He wrote to his Mamma and to Dunchurch to ask to come home and let them proclaim themselves to each other at Dunchurch Coombe. His brother almost broke his heart with his ready answer saying he and Elizabeth were to come and come quickly and with his blessing.

His mother's letter made him weep for a half hour to think he could have finally given her happiness after far too many years of despair and worry. She had feared he would be too like brother Richard and unable to live without love. Perhaps that was true. But he had found it, captured it, and secured his future.

Susanna and her little family, for Miss Clarion and Mrs. Heene were Susanna's family, wished to come too. He was not sure what Ladbroke—father of six—would consider of this venture, but he and his sister Clara wrote to say they would meet him and Elizabeth at Dunchurch Coombe Hall in a week.

Elizabeth wrote to her own family of her intentions and invited them to come. She did not expect anyone from her family to really consider it. Mary Crockford did write to say she wished her happiness after her sorrows; she had perhaps had details from Catherine. Mr. Watson, clergyman, perhaps thought to not allow his wife to send any blessing to Elizabeth about the prospect of living in sin with another man for that is what it was in the eyes of the church. She heard nothing from Jane, Lydia or her parents. It was a beam of light to hear from one sister, to be wished joy from one family member, however, and she clung to Mary's letter

She, Amelia, Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Parker as a chaperone left for Dunchurch Coombe.

They were met with welcoming arms. His mother was on the steps of the hall as they alighted from the carriage. Elizabeth held her daughter and curtseyed to the Dowager Countess who smiled at her and held her own arms open for a hug.

"He has gone around the dark side of the moon and come back to us because of you, dearest Elizabeth," and the Dowager Countess kissed her gently then. Elizabeth blushed.

"Mamma," cried Amelia.

"She is a beautiful girl and I welcome her as another granddaughter," and the Dowager Countess led them into the Hall.

* * *

The family were gathered in the largest drawing room to receive them. Elizabeth knew most of them but it was the Earl's home, the new Earl, and she knew him the least. She had met him and his wife at their wedding four years ago but not seen them since. The Countess Frederica was warm and received her with a handshake and then asked, "may I?" and hugged her. The Earl shook her hand too and then asked after her daughter who stood with her doll at her mother's side, quiet, taking in all the people.

Elizabeth prompted Amelia to curtsey and she did it as well as a two year old could attempt such a thing. The Countess exclaimed over her, "she looks like a Fitzwilliam! Such dark coloring. You should see Francis, they could be brother and sister! Almost twins!"

Elizabeth looked at the Countess then. She had never considered that the dark coloring of her daughter was due to Lady Anne's side of the family. Not so much Darcy, as Fitzwilliam. Part of Elizabeth smiled inside.

Lady Susanna came to greet her; Miss Clarion and Mrs. Heene were there was well. They talked for a while, Amelia sitting next to her with her doll until the other two women left for more tea.

"You have made Ned so happy, Elizabeth. I do not know how I can ever thank you," said Susanna, her voice tinged with emotion.

"I am happy myself. I thought I might be have trepidations to be doing this a second time but I have not had a second thought or doubt—and even though this is not exactly a wedding," answered Elizabeth.

"I cannot tell you how happy we are to have our old Edward back," said Lady Susanna.

"Very true," said Lady Clara who came to sit with them. "Elizabeth, we love our brother very much; he took such good care of us when we were in the nursery, was a special playmate and a protector that it warms my heart in a way I cannot describe that he has found peace and happiness."

Elizabeth did not know what to say but accepted their words and their praise, and let them wrap around her like a mantle and she knew was joining with him because of a deep and abiding passion she had for her mate.

"I should like to introduce someone to Elizabeth if I may," said Fitzwilliam who stood a little ways outside their circle. "Elizabeth, this is my nephew, James. James, this is my lady, my most beloved lady, Elizabeth," his voice was dark with love and devotion as he introduced his most beloved souls to each other.

"How do you do?" asked James as he bowed.

"How do you do?" replied Elizabeth looking at another dark Fitzwilliam.

"You are very pretty and I am pleased Uncle Ned is so happy," said Jamie.

"I thank you," said Elizabeth.

"Boy," said Amelia who stood on the sofa next to her and clutched at her shoulder looking at Jamie as she seemed to realize there were children here and not just adults in the room.

"Who is she?" asked Jamie, his eyes widening.

"This is my daughter, Amelia," said Elizabeth.

"She is very pretty too," said Jamie.

"I thank you," said Elizabeth and smiled at James who stood still and stared at the little child next to her mother with her halo of dark curls around her head and who seemed to stare back at him with an equal curiosity.

Jamie looked at the dark child next to his uncle's lady. All of his siblings were Ladbrokes, fair of hair and blue-eyed, even his new sister, Honoria. Here was another dark child like him. He tugged at his uncle's arm dragging him away from the women.

He pulled at Fitzwilliam's sleeve so he had to lean down so Jamie could whisper in his ear.

"Is she my sister?" he asked.

"No, she is a sort of distant cousin," explained his uncle.

Jamie was thoughtful for a second.

"Can she be my special lady?" asked Sir James with intensity.

"Do you wish her to be?" asked Fitzwilliam, surprised. "Does she have your heart?"

"Yes," answered Jamie, "very much."

"Then she can be your special lady," answered his uncle.

* * *

The morning was cold and gray and rain set in just after breakfast. This was not to be a garden ceremony. It was, after all, February. The parlor had been decorated with some hot-house flowers. It was the sunniest of rooms at that time of year and in the morning.

Elizabeth thought the arrangements were beautiful and could not have wished for anything more. There was no vicar to preside over them but they were to stand in front of their family and clasp hands with and declare themselves to each other.

They were to begin, everyone was gathered, when a footman announced Mr. and Mrs. Smith and suddenly Elizabeth was being hugged and kissed by Lydia who exclaimed over her and laughed and then hugged her some more.

Introductions had to be made around, long stories were promised after the ceremony, of how they all knew each other, of why—the Ladbroke sons wanted to know—the lady walked with a wooden leg and a limp and why they had come.

Edward Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy nee Bennet pledged themselves to each other before the assembled company and all the women wept. Even the Dowager Countess shed tears in company for her beloved son for whom she felt she no longer needed to worry.

The meal was not actually a 'wedding' breakfast, it was closer to dinner and as the children sat with them far nosier than any similar meal. Elizabeth was constantly on the verge of tears, but happy tears.

Her nephew George was so much grown since she had last seen him and by all appearances a fine young boy, shier than she would have suspected for being Lydia and Wickham's son, but he sat with the older Ladbroke sons and settled in well enough with Dickie.

Dickie was impressed that he had a soldier for a father and a mother with a wooden leg, so was Sophia. Their eyes went wide when he said she had been at Waterloo. A lady at Waterloo! Injured there as well! And then to hear that he, George himself, had been there though a baby! Their respect for Uncle Ned came back full force when George related that it was their Uncle Edward who had saved her and baby George and brought them safely home to England.

"My own, real father died there," George said with a small voice. "But I did not know him and Mr. Smith is the best father any boy could ask for," he concluded.

It was real and perfect because Lydia had come. To have one of her own family standing before her made any last doubts disappear for Elizabeth. Mary's letter had been a help, bolstered her up but to have Lydia and her still infectious laugh among them made it special.

* * *

Walsh had come. He had felt it important to come and see his master through his day though his own daughter was small yet and at home with Mrs. Keep. He had come to bathe his master that morning, scrape his cheeks, dress him to see him to the ceremony and that evening he bathed him again, let him beg off being shaved a second time but left him smelling of soap. His hair was tousled with a towel, a dressing gown put on his shoulders and his man could not but grin at him and Fitzwilliam could not but grin back. Then he saluted him and took his leave.

Mrs. Parker helped Elizabeth to bathe, helped her dress her hair and get into a nightgown and a dressing gown. Elizabeth thanked her for all that she had done, helped her to get her to that point. For it really was the effort of many who had brought her back through the winter to find the sun.

He was waiting for her. On the end of the bed lay a single rose.

"Why Edward, thank you," she exclaimed.

"It is not mine, or rather I must disclaim having left it," he cried. Rather than have her speculate that it was the consideration of one of his sisters, or run through a list of his relatives he explained, "I believe, young Jamie left it; he believes flowers are for ladies, for the giving of happiness."

She pricked a finger on the rose as she picked it up and licked a drop of blood off of it and he took her finger and tasted it; there is something about that that made her cry. She admitted then that she was nervous.

"I think that I have forgotten how to find pleasure; I believe the last time I had pleasure making love was with you."

She supposed she felt nervous, perhaps like a maid would feel on her wedding night, in some ways it was a wedding night but she was no maid.

She supposed her biggest error in life had been in reasoning herself away from love. Darcy had been in front of her, Fitzwilliam had been leaving, no matter how she had felt about the two men at the time. Darcy restored Lydia to her and then proclaimed himself. Fitzwilliam had not said anything of his love then, that had been his error or flaw, but he was also being a gentleman when his cousin had asked for his help and stated his own intentions. And she had feared being an officer's wife. So she had accepted what Darcy had offered, thought that she would be happy with it, but it had proved to be an increasingly lonely life. And after Amelia's birth it had become an ivory tower—and then she had found out about Ralph and it had all faded.

She wanted, she realized, what she had known, that small familiar life she had grown up with, not being a grand mistress of some estate, but the comforts of a home, a happy home with children. She wanted Amelia to have siblings. She did not want Amelia to be the sad, isolated and melancholy child like her Aunt Georgiana. It was why she had reluctantly agreed to try for a second child with Darcy before separating. Elizabeth had loved being a sister.

But here was someone she had loved since she first met. It had taken years to get to this point. To get to love. And then she was not nervous. She was no maid. She unlooped her dressing gown and pulled it from her shoulders; let it slide to the floor.

She grasped at his belt and tugged it apart and ran her hands beneath his gown not surprised at his nakedness this time.

"I love you Ned," she whispered as she snaked her hands over his chest running her fingers over his saber scar. Another hand went to his other shoulder dancing over his grapeshot scar. "I do not wish to ever be parted from you."

She thought about character, and how she had always equated it with being read on one's face, but here was his character to be read on his body, under her fingertips as though it were a book. His actions had stood the test of time as well. Character was more than just simply a visage to be painted and captured on canvas, handsome or plain. It was the measure of what one did, what one did for others.

"I love you, Lizzy," he said as he led her to bed; their passion was fierce and intense. Tears fell from his eyes, down his cheeks as he saw her dark eyes exactly as he had recalled them all those years ago, would always recall them.

He wept on her shoulder, kissed her cheek. They slept. He dreamed of Elizabeth and then would wake to find her in his arms and could pull her close, kiss her cheek and sleep again. Dream again of her and wake to still find her by his side.


	52. Chapter 52

London, November, 1820

Fitzwilliam woke on his birthday, his 37th because Elizabeth was stirring beside him. She moaned and called aloud suddenly, her voice becoming a whimper.

"What is it?" he cried.

"The babe," she answered, turning away from him, and cried out loud. Excitement and fear hit him. He instantly recalled the day—or days—of Amelia's birth and wondered if the laboring with this child, his child would be the same. She cried again in pain and he enveloped her in his arms and held her.

"I do not wish to leave you," he said. So they stayed together for a while the waves of pain rose and fell in her body.

She cried out, cried out loud finally, panting and gasping, "please go fetch Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Keep," and he had to release her and do as she requested. He roused Walsh from his bed to fetch the midwife then set to pacing in the drawing room which proved an ineffectual activity. Scenarios ran through his mind of possible outcomes; her past history was against her and he wondered why he had pushed, he so wanted children of his own, more children, for he adored Amelia. She had been so convinced of her barrenness and it had curbed her and he had wanted to show she was wrong. Wanted to fully restore the joy he had once found in her. And it had been so easy to conceive a child. She talked of a son but he said he thought of a daughter, a sister for Amelia.

Worry caused him to panic that the birth would be just as difficult and he paced ever onwards as though back in practice, in the army, back at Ostend, drilling and marching. He finally gave up and paced down into the bowels of the house to the realm of the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He knew how to boil water and make tea. Years on the Peninsula had taught him that sort of care and he boiled his water, made his tea and sat to drink it in Mrs. Keep's territory. He assumed it would be half a day at least for news though he should, perhaps, find some employment or absent himself from the house lest he be knocking at the door asking for news and making a nusaince of himself.

He recalled Darcy's own worried face that first day, two and a half years ago, worrying and waiting for his heir, his son to be born. Darcy had been convinced it was a boy. All of Elizabeth's sisters had born sons as their first child so his must also be a male child, that heir he wanted. Fitzwilliam had not been there, afterwards, to truly find out how Darcy felt about having a daughter. They had grown apart, the two cousins, after that day. Darcy had, in Fitzwilliam's mind, not valued his daughter or, perhaps, he had, but appreciated that a daughter needed her mother.

Amelia's two week visit to Pemberley this past summer had been difficult for both daughter and mother. Elizabeth, five months pregnant, had not wished to show herself to Darcy so Mrs. Parker had taken the child there and back again. The child had cried and missed her mother but there was no getting around the arrangement. He hoped the next visit would be better.

He poured another cup of tea and tried not to think too much about Elizabeth and the baby. He wondered if Walsh was back with the midwife by then; would Walsh come find him in the kitchen, know he was down in the bowels of the house? Footsteps then echoed down the staircase and he turned to talk to Walsh but it was Mrs. Keep.

"Sir! You are down here!" she started at the bottom of the stairs.

"I thought to have tea while I waited—try to take my mind off waiting since I may be at it most of the morning," he replied.

"No—sir! She's here," she cried.

"The midwife?" he asked.

"No, your daughter."

He ran up the stairs to their bedroom but Elizabeth was not there. She had said she might move to a room near the nursery so he ran up one more flight of stairs. He heard talking, knocked then entered without permission.

Elizabeth was curled up in the bed with their daughter—their daughter—and speaking to Mrs. Parker who smiled, said her congratulations and left them alone.

He gazed at the small creature beside his wife, for he had come to think of her in those terms. The baby was beautiful with a perfectly round head and a cap of dark hair. She was sleeping next to her mother.

"I am deeply and profoundly in love," he said at last as he leaned even closer, gazing at his daughter.

"What shall we call her?" asked Elizabeth.

"Since I have been like Job and have been set trials and come through and am to be blessed even more in my later years then this _first_ daughter should be named, like Job's first was so named: Jemimah," he answered.

"Jemimah," she repeated.

"Jemimah," and he reached down to gather his daughter, his first born into his arms and cradled her to his chest.

* * *

To some their relationship was scandalous. He was the son of an Earl; yet there would always be drawing rooms in London that would bar them for which they would be doors never open to them, houses they could never enter; he had never cared that much for that. He had served his country; he had his commission for twelve years, served on the Peninsula for seven years, earned his scars, he had come to fight, despite the odds at Waterloo, he had fought for his heart, he had fought an even greater battle.

In so many ways his life had been luck, dumb luck cutting him down and hope moving him forward, and in hanging on to hope, clinging on to it despite everything else telling him he should give over, because of that he had Elizabeth by his side; she had her studio and she received commissions. She would not be content with simply being just the mistress of the house but she enjoyed being able to put pencil to paper and applying a brush and perhaps their unusual living arrangement added to her reputation as a portrait painter. His children were his enjoyment and his employment and like Job in his later years he remembered his trials and was thankful every day for his blessings.


	53. Chapter 53

**Epilog**

Afghanistan, January 1842

James Ladbroke had joined a regiment of the foot just like his uncle. His experiences had been nothing like what his uncle had. To be stationed in India and working to support the British East India Company seemed less romantic, less heroic than in serving under Wellington, than in determining the fate of the world in an epic battle like Waterloo.

He loved his uncle perhaps more than his own father. Once he had reached his majority, Uncle Ned had shared those details about war that he had carefully edited during his childhood. Told him, taking hours to do so, of the fight at Waterloo, of his early days on the Peninsula, of his years of service to King and country. He spoke, though, more of those other battles, those times when the victory was not certain, when the troops did not yell huzzah at the end. Uncle Ned had been at Badajoz in 1812 when the bodies had been piled deep and blood ran like rivers, yet still Wellington, then only an Earl, had been there and wept at the losses. Ned spoke of Ordal, it seemed to forever haunt him, that defeat. James' commander was nothing like Wellington. Uncle Ned had never reported directly to Wellington but to work under him must have been such an honor, an inspiration

James kept walking, trudging through the snow; the cold and numbness of his legs not bothering him anymore and he wondered if frostbite had taken his toes. General Elphinstone had surrendered yesterday to Akbar Khan's men and he wondered if they had slaughtered him, the tribesmen, just as they had slaughtered the soldiers who had deserted yesterday and tried to retreat back to Kabul. 4,500 men plus 12,000 camp followers and retainers had set out had six days ago; James thought they might number 200 now, but the cold and the guerilla attacks kept picking off the men heading from Kabul to Jalalabad.

So few of them had muskets or ammunition. There were swords among them. James had two Mughal daggers tucked into his waistband. He had planned on giving them to Uncle Ned's sons the next time he saw them but now he was uncertain of such a meeting. He thought of Jemimah and wondered how her painting was coming along. He tried not to think of Amelia, but he supposed at this moment, at the end of all things, when there was no hope, that it was an appropriate time to consider her.

Mr. Darcy had objected to the marriage but his passing over a year ago meant there was hope for him and Amelia. Aunt Elizabeth was certain the new head of the family would sanction the match and Amelia was past her majority. Mr. Darcy had always wished for her to marry Francis, Lord Radbourne. He had wanted her to be a Countess. But Amelia loved him, had loved him since they were small.

It had brought him to tears to read Uncle Ned's letter that he was to be married at last. After more than twenty years with Aunt Elizabeth he was still a besotted fool and the tears, Ned's own tears, on the letter as he wrote to his nephew were a testament to that fact. He might be a fifty-eight year old bridegroom but he was the happiest man alive. Their children, daughters and sons stood up with them and James had been sorry he had missed it. His sister Sophia had written that everyone wept except Uncle Everard, their own father and their brother John—Men! She had declared.

He still had Uncle Ned's old boot knife and he leaned down to pull it out and a musket ball careened off the rocks where his head had been. The men around him flattened themselves and waited. No one attempted to fire back; no one wasted ammunition at invisible targets. Dumb luck, surviving war was dumb luck—case in point he had reached for that knife out of sentiment and it had saved his life just then. But would sentiment and luck truly allow him to survive to see his family or Amelia again? They had only made it one third of the way to Jalalabad and had almost been wiped out. Would the tribesmen slaughter the army entirely or take prisoners?

There were no other signs of attack so their weary and frigid company of men began moving again through the pass and attempted, once again, to reach Jalalabad.

* * *

A/N:

I think, perhaps, only I love my Fitzwilliam. As Jane Austen said of Emma, he is a character only an author can love. Some of you appreciate his soul; a lot of you hate me for messing with Lizzy and Darcy.

I did not set out to mess with one of the great love stories. In my old age I find myself looking back at the small times I made decisions that then seem to have a big impact and wanted to craft a story about those choices, some big: does she marry Darcy? Some that seem small: Darcy gets mad and takes himself out riding after they argue to check on his property, see how the ill Mr. Hunt is doing and a small indiscretion becomes a much larger issue.

I had wanted it to be complicated, to attempt to write about real people, with flaws but I did not want there to be one bad guy, that all the blame fell on one single person; all three of them came together to create their situation. Do we need to really apportion blame? Elizabeth had, in part, talked herself into being in love with Darcy rather than acknowledging her love for Fitzwilliam. She had, in her spiritedness, railed against Darcy because he could not find and rescue Lydia again despite his arguing he felt out of his element in that situation but she did not listen and he fled that day. A few people asked why did she not speak to Darcy when they began to be distant but it is difficult to notice when that first happens until you almost get to that cliff edge. I have a friend who is a social worker who works with battered women (not that Elizabeth was a battered wife) but who says it is such a common thread that you do not notice that something is wrong or different until it is profoundly wrong or different.

Elizabeth was not brought back from her illness because of love; at least not the saved by a man type. Her daughter saved her. Nor did she stray because her husband did first; she chose to do so, before she knew about his indiscretion. She also made her own little life on her own in the end before deciding on a new life with Fitzwilliam. I guess this story is as much about her as it was about Fitzwilliam.

The Colonel should have stayed away; I think then Darcy and Elizabeth would have been able to work things out. That was his biggest flaw, but he was guardian to Georgiana, invited to Pemberley by his cousin and seemed to not be able to make decisions despite being a man of action on the battlefield. But his love for Elizabeth likely saved Lydia and George's life; would Lydia have had to turn to prostitution in the Netherlands or marry a foreigner? How are we to know.

I saw Darcy's attraction to Elizabeth as a case of opposites attract and have seen so many marriages where this has been the factor that killed it. To see some trait in an OTHER that you might value because you lack it or are attracted to it but that it does not work. He liked her wit and playfulness but it a way it was his undoing. I have had friends who called the weddings off weeks or even days before with a 'mea culpa' or weddings that went through with divorces afterwards and the "we were too dissimilar," and "not enough in common to stay together," and those who are married for years seem to be two tandem horses, paired so well together with similar interests.

I took my prompt to write a story about Colonel Fitzwilliam by reviewing Austen for clues about him and found myself noting what Elizabeth had said and felt about him.

" _talked so agreeably…of traveling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit…"_

" _It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her…"_

" _Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and, agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him."_

Elizabeth has an admiration for the Colonel, even if she is persuaded against it for various reasons. There was an attraction there—first impressions were favorable; they had seemed compatible from the start.

I then mulled on the old opposites attract idea, so well-used in literature. But that does not mean that they can turn out well. Sometimes what is interesting and exciting about another person, can become grating and jarring over time. That cute little thing you fall in love with becomes that item you then always bring up in arguments with your spouse. Regarding Elizabeth's thoughts on Darcy:

" _His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes."_

"… _she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties…"_

She did not immediately value Darcy; they were not immediately compatible. And she seemed far more logical about how she came to loving Darcy rather than noting how she felt.

And this was just a particular perspective to their relationship; there are other ways of seeing how Darcy and Elizabeth fall in love and stay in love. This was a tragedy and not a Disney-themed story.

And it evolved from there.

One last thought. Once there are children involved I do not think any one of them would chose to have done it differently. Not one parent, no matter how bitter the custody battle, ever regrets the circumstances of her or his child's birth. So I do not think Elizabeth or Darcy would regret Amelia or Ralph's birth. Before I had kids I quibbled with the movie "Peggy Sue got Married," but get it now.

Because nothing is ever original, there is a little Cyrano de Bergerac and Macbeth in there. I quoted or paraphrased the Bible and Tolkien and, of course, Austen.

I did a lot of reading on Regency life at the time and peppered my story with that. The funeral process, the bawdy masquerades, a lot of toast and tea. (Okay maybe that was in reading too much Saki—Edwardian short story writer).

I liked as a source as well as . I used both for my funeral and general background research. I found an article about a contemporary Regency gentleman (though an older man with grown children) who did slit his throat when his wife died which gave me the idea for Richard Fitzwilliam on Naomi Clifford's site.

And the Regency Redingote site had a great article about women at funerals (Victorian: no; Regency, was an 'it depends: service, yes, graveside, no'). I cannot recall which gave me the idea about the brawl breaking out at the midnight funeral, which was another contemporary Regency story—some Duke's grand funeral ending in fisticuffs by the hired and drunk mourners.

All of my battles are actual battles and I spent weeks reading about Waterloo for all that it was three pages once condensed. And what I said about Ordal was true; it was the last French victory on the Peninsula.

I read The Napoleonic Wars: the Rise and Fall of an Empire by Gregory Fremont-Barnes for background regarding the entire period, plus related web searches. It gave me a great context about the Peninsula War and Waterloo.

I did find an interesting website about women at Waterloo and a mention of a woman who had, like Lydia, her leg taken by a musket ball which gave me the idea for Lydia's injury, as well as the mention of all the other nameless women who were never recorded but worked on the day of, carting the wounded and the dead. I am not sure if I would be like Georgiana and could never have considered being there or if I am like Lydia and would have wanted to be near my man and have helped out.

I based the Colonel's service on the 27th Regiment of the Foot which had a company that fought in all of the battles that I had the Colonel in, though it was a different companies so I have stretched the historical record a little there. It was primarily an Irish regiment which inspired me to make Walsh Irish.

Regarding James Ladbroke's fate: Google 'Elphinstone's army.' _One_ man made it to Jalalabad. Depending on which source you find, between seven and twelve soldiers lived to tell about it after being taken hostage by the Afghanis. It changed the way the army was deployed, commissions were given after that.

The picture is a portrait of Stamford Raffles, founder of Singapore, he is someone else worth looking up.

Think of your own life and choices. What about that time you stayed out late with friends; walked home a different way; was late driving down that road: all those little choices we make that can be small yet could have had a big impact. Did you meet someone or miss meeting someone? did you miss, by minutes, being in a car wreck?

Or the big decisions: you got into your college or program of choice, or you quit your job. Did you miss staying somewhere and meeting the love of your life or perhaps quitting your job and getting that next one was the best thing that ever happened?


End file.
